—a postscript
by Jad fic
Summary: The Dark Lord is dead, and the Boy Who Lived... well, lived. Life for the next generation's been good. So far. But Wizarding Britain is about to learn that Voldemort was the least of their problems... Post-War/Next-Gen.
1. Diagon Alley, August, 2023

**Part One**  
_Diagon Alley, August, 2023_

. . .

'Morning.'

The goblin, who is inspecting several rubies the size of golf balls, proceeds to ignore the remark for another minute while he finishes scribbling down notes upon his parchment. He sighs, slowly, as if conversing with a wizard at this hour of the morning is the last thing in the world he wishes to have to do, and raises his head. He blinks several times, and immediately sits up straight.

'Young Mr Malfoy,' he says, and clears his throat. 'Excuse me, sir, for I—did not recognise you.'

Scorpius, un-vexed, ignores him. 'I want to make a withdrawal.'

'Of course, sir,' the goblin says quickly, and snaps his fingers behind the counter. 'Gritgnuk!'

Gritgnuk comes scurrying forward, moving to the front of the counter, and takes the proffered key with an over-zealous bow. Scorpius recognises him easily; only a small, elite portion of the staff is familiar with the lower ring of vaults, most of which belong to age-old families that are nearly as ancient as the bank itself.

Gritgnuk looks around, then peers up at Scorpius with his eyebrows raised.

'My father won't be joining us, if that's what you're waiting for,' he snaps in response to the unspoken query.

Rude and stubborn creatures though they may be, goblins have a reputation for being quick and clever for a good reason; Gritgnuk clearly hears the irritation in his voice and leads him to the chutes without a word.

It takes the better part of half an hour to reach the vault, make his withdrawal, and return to the main floor. Gritgnuk returns his key and hurries away to address another barked command. The goblin he spoke to earlier that morning seems rather surprised to see him again. 'Everything all right, sir?' he enquires mildly.

Scorpius dumps a large sack of Galleons on the counter. 'I want to make an exchange.'

The goblin looks at him like one might regard a cow asking to buy a pound of veal. Recovering quickly, he peers inside the sack, eyeing the golden coins curiously. 'How much, sir?'

Scorpius smirks. '_All_ of it.'

. . .

'Oh, Dad, _come on_,' James pleads, fluttering his eyelashes in a way that would send any teenage girl swooning. 'You had a _Firebolt_ when you were _twelve_!'

'Thirteen,' Harry amends, unfazed. 'Almost fourteen, actually. Did you get all of your books?'

'Bought and paid for by a bloody _criminal!_' James continues in outrage.

'He wasn't a criminal,' Harry corrects him. 'Watch your language. And I'm pretty sure I earned it.'

'I can conjure a Patronus,' James points out. 'And I got an "Outstanding" in Defence last year!'

'Took you long enough,' Harry remarks. 'Tell you what—if you battle off an army of Dementors on your own, I'll buy you the broom. Did you get your books?'

'Remember when I said all I wanted for my seventeenth was the bike? I've changed my mind, okay?'

Over James' pleading, Albus answers his father, 'Yes, Lily's too.'

Harry nods. 'Thank you.' Then to James, 'You're not getting my bike, either.'

'Dad,' James says in a tone that suggests he will not be so easily thwarted. 'Seriously. Look!' He points unnecessarily at the main window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where the new Eclipse model gleams tauntingly at them. 'Can't you recognise love at first sight? It's practically moaning, "_My one true love, the things we could do together_—"'

'Yeah, that's just what you need,' Harry interrupts, rolling his eyes. Albus coughs loudly into his hand.

'Hey, I can't help it if I'm popular,' says James, running his hand proudly through his hair.

Albus pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, bringing the broom into sharp focus through the glass window. 'At least he couldn't get the broom pregnant,' he points out.

'True,' Harry says, feigning consideration. He turns to face James, who has lit up hopefully at this Very Good Point. James almost instantly deflates at the look on his father's face. 'The answer's still no. _Seven_ owls from McGonagall last term alone, James.'

'At least three of those were gross exaggerations,' James explains. 'And the rest were horrible, horrible lies written by Slytherins who don't want me to thrash them in the Cup this year.'

'You're thrashing them fine with your Aspect,' Harry says firmly.

'She's served her time,' James goes on, desperately running out of arguments. 'She's getting weak in the twigs. The pangs of age, and all that. It'd be cruel to grind her through another season.' Seeing that his father is no longer listening, James sidesteps in front of him. He is as tall as Harry now, but skinnier; his shoulders still need filling-out. '_Please_, Dad. Come _on_, you don't want those slimy, no-good gits to have the edge—'

Albus clears his throat. 'One of those "slimy, no-good gits" is standing right here.'

'Quiet, snake,' James says offhandedly, still trying to appeal to Harry, who is now walking ahead of them towards No. 93. 'My point is that you _know_ Malfoy's going to come swaggering into the hall with an Eclipse on his shoulder, and I swear to Merlin if I have to listen—'

'Hey, Ron,' Harry says, ignoring his son. Ron is outside the shop, restocking the latest inventions of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on the window-shelf.

Ron tosses his head in greeting, hands too full of what look like highly explosive mice, smoking from the ears, to allow him to wave. 'Mornin'. You lot out getting your books? You haven't seen Hugh around, have you?'

'He's probably died from a broken heart inside the Quidditch shop,' James says, clutching at his own chest. 'I think I may go join him.'

'Oh, yeah,' Ron says, shrugging. 'I wanted to get him the broom, but Hermione'd have my head.'

'You are all _terrible_ parents.'

'The worst,' Harry says, at length, before turning to Ron. 'Have you eaten yet?'

'No,' Ron says, and, at the prospect of food, hurriedly empties the mice into the box on the shelf. Albus peers curiously inside and sees that they are whizzing from one side to the other, emitting loud bangs and cracks as they smash into one another. 'Hermione's meeting me at the Leaky in a bit, if you want to come.'

'I refuse to eat,' James says, sounding very melodramatic. 'My stomach has joined the Strike Against Terrible Parents.'

'Do us a favour, then, would you?' Ron says, unconcerned. 'Go find Hugo. You two can cry out your sorrows together.'

'Mum would buy me the broom,' James declares by way of farewell. 'Mum would _understand_!'

'She probably would, too,' Ron says, grinning at Harry, once James is out of earshot.

'She's the reason he's spoiled rotten. Her and that mother of yours,' Harry says, mock-bitterly. He looks sideways at Albus. 'You finally going to try out for the team this year?'

'If I do, will you buy _me_ the broom?' Albus asks, smirking.

'I'd seriously consider it,' Harry says with a smile. 'You're going to waste.'

'Yeah, but if I get on the team and do as well as you think I will, then Gryffindor would lose the Cup,' Albus points out. 'And then—'

'We'd never hear the end of it,' Harry agrees.

'Until he moves out,' Albus adds, as an afterthought.

'It's not hard to see why the Hat threw him into Slytherin,' Ron says offhandedly, laughing.

. . .

Ron and Hermione are celebrating the beginning of the new school year by going on a two-week holiday somewhere very warm with blue water and white sand, or so Albus overheard at dinner the night before. Hugo and Rose stayed the night and are travelling to King's Cross with them; Rose is thankfully as organised as her mother, or they may never have made it out of the house. Harry is muttering under his breath that he's never understood how Molly could get five kids to school without going insane when Albus drags his trunk down the stairs.

'Got everything?' Albus nods. 'Good. Where's your sister?'

'Deciding which robes to wear.'

'For crying out—LILY!' His voice echoes up the stairs.

A moment later Lily answers, 'I can't find my quills!'

A large, red, rather ragged-looking Quaffle flies past Harry's ear; he catches it swiftly, without losing a beat, a moment before it would have upset the vase on the kitchen table.

_'Phwoar_,' Hugo breathes, coming to retrieve the ball. At just fifteen, he's almost as tall as Harry already, and built like a bull, as if he'd been engineered to play a Beater. 'I thought that was a goner. Sorry, Uncle Harry.'

'It's fine. Are you ready? Rose, too? Where's—James, go help your sister find her quills.'

Rolling his eyes, James takes off up the stairs. Getting ready for school is always a chore when their mum's away. She makes it look easy, Harry always says. Handling packs is in her blood, or something. Albus sometimes wonders if his father would have had kids at all if his mother hadn't wanted them so badly.

Getting out of the house is the hardest part. After that, all Harry has to do is make sure he doesn't misplace anyone on the way, and the train will take care of the rest. They make it to King's Cross at the last minute, as they usually do, with the train whistling its five-minute warning as Albus crosses through the barrier onto Platform 9 ¾. Dominique is already waiting for them, or rather waiting for James, leaning against the side of the train carriage as they approach. He's taller than James, with fairer skin and far more freckles, his long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Bill and Fleur wave in greeting from the other side of the platform.

'About bloody time,' he calls, grinning.

James makes a rude hand gesture that Harry quickly extinguishes with a severe look. 'All right, get a move on, it won't wait,' Harry says, ushering them all towards the train.

'He _would_ know,' James says cheekily.

'If I get an owl before the week's over, I'll be Flooing your mother,' Harry warns.

'I'll make sure he behaves,' Dominique promises.

'Same goes for you,' Harry adds, not fooled. 'Al, look after your sister—yes, Lily, I'll owl you the quills. _Go_.'

'So pushy,' James sniffs, lugging his trunk onto the train.

'He has no faith in us anymore,' Dom agrees solemnly.

'Wouldn't have anything to do with that toilet seat you sent Teddy,' Albus remarks.

'Quiet, snake,' James says, his tone a little less friendly than it was a moment ago. The change is expected, and it doesn't really bother Albus. You can't appear to be too friendly to a Slytherin if you're a Gryffindor, even if he is your little brother. 'Where are we going? See if you can find Violet's compartment—'

'She's all full-up, looks like Cody beat you to her,' Lily announces, peeking inside the compartment to their left. A loud, familiar giggle comes from inside, making both Albus and Lily grimace. 'I'm going to find Olivia, I'll see you guys.' Wordlessly, Hugo follows her. Albus watches them go in despair, wishing he could slip away unnoticed. But James would catch him before he got two feet.

The compartment to their right also has the curtains drawn. Albus quickly recognises the voices inside; so does James.

'Ugh, snake pit. Come on,' he says, heaving his trunk further down the corridor.

Albus doesn't argue—the last time he tried to sit with Slytherins on the train, James made a loud, public declaration about how they had nine and a half months to try to taint and corrupt him, but he wouldn't be giving them one minute more with his brother than he had to. Not that Albus particularly _desires_ to be forced into their company; most of the Slytherins treat him like a Gryffindor spy, anyway. In all fairness, he pretty much is; James can get any information out of his brother that he wants if he plays his cards right—and he always does.

Sighing, he follows James down the corridor.

The ride to Hogwarts is largely uneventful, at least for Albus, as he spends most of it sitting in the corner of the compartment watching his brother make a fool out of himself. James and Seán Finnigan have entered in a running contest to see who can get the most snogs before the train arrives, and so far James is winning by double figures. Dominique refrains from participating; he's what James likes to call 'the weird, monogamous one', and refuses to snog anyone that isn't Elizabeth Smith. Albus thinks it's something to do with his mum warning him to be careful with the 'Veela-stuff' but James says this is clearly nonsense, and it's obviously because he is French.

'More for me,' James declares, waving a dismissive hand. His eyes wander over to Albus, who is lounging comfortably in Dom's shadow. 'What about you, snake? You'd do all right, if you gave it a shot.'

'I don't want any venereal diseases, but thanks.'

'You're hilarious,' James says, deadpan. 'Really, would it _kill you_ to have a little fun?'

'I have plenty of fun,' he says, and when James raises an eyebrow, continues, smirking, 'just when you're not looking, Jamie.'

'Don't call me that, snake.'

'Sure thing, Jamie.'

'Whatever.' The response is familiar, and indicates that James is no longer listening.

'He hasn't snogged _anyone_ yet,' Seán interjects, smirking. 'Have you, squirt?'

'Shut it, Finnigan,' James snaps, in accordance with his somewhat unique philosophy—that he may pick on his little brother as much and as often as he pleases, but that it is his right _alone_—but is immediately distracted from telling Finnigan off any further. 'Ooh, there's Lesley Bell—bugger _off_,' he growls as Seán dashes out of the compartment, calling after him in a hiss, 'I saw her first!'

'Finders keepers, Potter!'

'I should probably go check in with the prefects,' Dominique announces, standing.

James wrinkles his nose. 'Traitor.'

Dominique shrugs, opening the compartment door. 'You're just miffed I get my own room.'

'Inside which you will be breaking at _least_ a dozen different school rules,' James points out. Dom smirks as he leaves, James' head following him outside calling at the top of his voice, 'Copulation outside of marriage is a sin, you know!'

'_Head_ _Boy_,' he mutters, slumping back into his seat, having little left to do now that both his best friends are elsewhere and he has only his snakey-sibling for company. He gives Albus a very serious look. 'If you're Head Boy next year, I'll disown you.'

'I'm not even a prefect,' Albus points out.

'Yeah, well, you're not completely without hope,' James agrees, propping his feet on the bench next to Albus. 'Who actually _wants_ to be Head Boy, anyway? Just a load of extra work, and you have to listen to everybody whinge about everything.'

'Well,' says Albus, shrugging, 'he also gets to take points.'

Something bright lights up in James' dark eyes, and Albus can practically hear the gears inside of his head processing this piece of information he's clearly been overlooking.

'Ooh, _yes_.' Rubbing his hands together like a fiend, he smiles brilliantly at Albus. 'Nothing personal, snake, but your lot is _toast_.'

. . .

Dominique didn't especially want to be Head Boy, though he doesn't particularly mind the prospect, either. It's earned his aunt's recognition, which according to his entire family certainly counts for something, and he _does_ get his own room—which he is willing to bet James will use for more illicit purposes than he even wants to think about. And, as his father pointed out, it looks great on a resume; just look at their uncle, scribe to the Minister fresh out of Hogwarts; and so on, and so forth.

Either way, Dominique was happy enough to accept the offer. Although if the Headmistress thinks that his being Head Boy will keep James Potter in line, well, then maybe it's about time for her to retire anyway.

Madison Buckley is waiting at the door; she is a petite, squirrelish Ravenclaw with bright eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and is serving as his counterpart Head Girl. She blushes when he says hello, which isn't entirely unusual; she tends to blush whenever anybody notices her existence. It looks as if most of the other prefects have already assembled in the compartment designated for their pre-term meeting. He takes the register anyway, just to make sure. There are some new prefects he doesn't recognise, and...

'Wait, where's Malfoy?'

A short, cold cough draws his attention to the back, where icy eyes are lurking in the shadows of the Ravenclaw prefects, Susan Willows and Haydan Bray.

Dominique blinks at him. 'Did you—'

'Does it matter?' Scorpius demands coldly. Dom doesn't answer immediately; beside Scorpius, Jocelyn Rosier cracks her gum, loudly, the sound breaking the silence like a whip.

_Bloody Slytherins_. Dominique shrugs. 'Just asking. Anyway—'

. . .

Harry sighs as the train pulls out of the station, taking with it an enormous weight off his shoulders. It's not that he minds the kids being home; if anything, both he and Ginny miss them terribly when they are at school. It's just that with the two of them juggling full work schedules, it is always more exhausting than it is gratifying to have the summer holidays roll around; summer is a busy time, for both of them—the Quidditch Cup, in particular, can keep Ginny away for months at a time.

By the time he gets to work, it is half past eleven, but as he _is_ the boss, it really doesn't matter. Kingsley is waiting for him in his office, staring at the world map on the far wall, still marked with a dozen or so red pins.

'Kids all off?' Harry nods. 'We need to talk.' _Oh, great_, Harry thinks, and waits for it. 'Your department is currently paying out more overtime—'

'We already talked about that—'

'—than every other department_ combined_,' Kingsley finishes firmly. 'It's one thing to have two or three Aurors pulling overtime on every paycheque, it's another if it's the _entire_ _department_. Especially when most of your department consists of _senior_ Aurors who make at least three times as much as your recruits—'

'_That_ is the problem, though,' Harry says, frustrated. 'We don't _have_ any recruits. We've had maybe a dozen or so rookies in the past two years, and more than half of them haven't made the cut. I can't _force_ people to apply for the job; I'm doing the best I can with what I have.'

'I know, I'm not blaming you, Harry, relax.' Kingsley rubs his temple, looking less like the Minister in the _Prophet_ and more like the Auror Harry once once fought beside. 'We just need to figure something out. After the war, everyone just dropped everything to celebrate,' he continues, sighing. 'Since then, it's almost as though they've forgotten we needed Aurors before the Dark Lord.'

'I've got my hands full as it is,' Harry tells him. 'I don't have time to work on recruiting campaigns, I'm handling the job of a team on my own here.'

'I know you are, which is why I'm sending you help for that,' Kingsley says, standing and moving towards the door. 'Just try not to scare him out of the office, all right? And give Weasley a Floo, will you?'

'I already have.'

Kingsley turns back around, eyebrow raised. 'And?'

'And he says he'll think about,' Harry says. 'He's on holiday. You do know what those are, don't you?

'Can't say I'm familiar with the term,' Kingsley says, smirking as he closes the door. 'I've never had one.'

'Yeah, me neither,' Harry mutters, slumping down at his desk.

. . .

Dominique leaves them at Hogsmeade station to help escort the first-years up to the castle, and the space at James' side is quickly filled, in addition to Seán, by Nikolas Sloper and Clarrisa Vane, both also seventh-year Gryffindors. Albus initially thought Clarissa to be something of a tomboy, but has come to the realisation that she is actually desperately in love with his older brother without any hope that he'll ever notice that she is, in fact, of the female variety. She isn't exactly unfortunate looking, but nor is she remarkable—certainly not the slim, clear-skinned, Greek-goddess that James intends to marry. She seems content enough in his company, though, and is always nice to Albus despite his Slytherin status; she smiles in greeting as they pile into a carriage.

Nikolas is in the midst of recounting all the injuries he managed to sustain over the summer while trying out the new Eclipse (his father is the Chief Editor of _Which Broomstick_, which means that whenever a new model comes out, Nik is suddenly the most popular bloke in school) and holds the attention of everyone except James, who keeps glaring out the window, which Albus is surprised to notice has yet to crack under the pressure.

'Mum'll probably send you the broom,' Albus says finally. Displays of empathy are not his greatest strength—improvisational sarcasm has always been much more his forte—but he figures he ought to try. A gloomy James spells trouble for everybody, especially Slytherins.

'If she ever comes home,' James mutters, eyes flickering to his brother. 'They're on their fifth week, now.'

The Quidditch World Cup always takes Mum away from home for at least two weeks—that's when the game only lasts a day or two. She always manages to get them good tickets, since she knows everybody in the circuit, but occasionally a game will last several weeks and they'll hardly see her at all. It bothers Lily the most out of all of them, being crammed in a house with nothing but 'an overdose of testosterone' for the entire summer. Albus, however, suspects that her complaints are due more to the fact that she is the only one who knows how to cook.

'Maybe you can appeal to McGonagall,' Albus suggests. 'She got Dad the Nimbus, after all.'

James seems to consider this for a moment. 'This,' he says, 'is why you got tossed into Slytherin. You have all these _ideas_.' He spits the word, as if it were a sin. 'But not a bad point, snake. S'worth a shot, at least. Dad still wants _you_ to try out, you know.'

'You'd have Sloper murder me with a Bludger,' Albus points out.

'I would, but you'd deserve it. Playing for the snakes! Honestly. I still reckon they should allow you to transfer Houses,' James declares, as he does _every_ year. 'I mean, really, that soggy old Hat probably went mad years ago.'

'Dad was almost in Slytherin,' Albus points out.

'"Almost" being the operative word.'

'I don't mind it,' Albus says, shrugging. 'Don't know why you do.'

'The hell you don't mind it! McGonagall had to kick you out of our common room like fifty times in your first year.'

_Because you kept dragging me in_, Albus thinks, but simply shrugs again. 'It's all right. They're not so bad, you know. Most of them just leave me alone.'

James gives him another look, a look Albus knows far too well, that says he knows Albus won't tattle on anyone, whether they deserve it or not, because Albus never wants to cause a fuss where one can be avoided. Albus avoids his gaze, instead looking out the window to the castle, which grows larger with every rickety step the carriage takes.

Thankfully, James is distracted by Nikolas waving _Which Broomstick_ under his nose, and he leaves Albus to it. Hogwarts glimmers brilliantly through the rain-spattered window, poised high over the lake, a supernatural temple awaiting its guests to spoil with feasts and knowledge. He often walks the halls of the school, wondering about its great history, the thousands of witches and wizards who have passed through the same halls over the centuries, and what stories their lives held. And, more interesting yet, what stories the castle will continue to hold long after they've all gone.

Not that he ever shares these thoughts, though. James would laugh him right out of the castle.

. . .

The Great Hall is a dazzling sight to behold, with thousands of lit candles floating overhead, the deep, inky sky bleeding down from the ceiling. Large groups of students break off from one another as they enter, quickly filling the long, glossy wooden tables positioned under their house flags. James ruffles his hair with a grin, calling, 'Later, snake!' as he heads towards the Gryffindor table, surrounded by a throng of his friends.

Albus straightens his glasses and wanders to the Slytherin table alone, eyes searching the length of the bench. The familiar splash of white amongst the seated crowd is nowhere to be seen; Albus furrows his brow, and takes a seat between the Zabini twins, both of whom greet him with cold indifference.

'Wotcher, snake.'

Albus looks up quickly to find what he is looking for right across from him. Silver eyes glitter smartly back at him, and he blinks several times as he looks Scorpius over. He adopted James' nickname for him sometime back in second year; Albus actually minds it less coming from him, because he knows that Scorpius doesn't really mean it.

'Nice hair,' Albus remarks. 'Have you been disinherited yet?'

Scorpius smirks, making the skin around his eyes and nose crinkle pleasantly. His hair, which had been getting rather long, has been cut shockingly short and styled with something sticky to give it the look of a casual, tousled mess. What is most surprising is the colour; the white-blonde has been changed to a deep black, whether by magic or some Muggle concoction, Albus doesn't yet know. It is remarkable how much paler he looks with it now, rather than the unicorn-like mane everyone is used to.

'Father's got more important things to do than attempt to discipline his delinquent offspring,' Scorpius drawls, in a tone that suggests this to be quoted verbatim. His eyes are still the same, though. That much is reassuring to Albus, and he smirks back.

Any further conversation will have to wait; Albus tries to speak with Malfoy as sparingly as possible when his brother is around, even if he is at the far end of the hall. James has what he likes to call a 'sixth sense' that allows him to detect when any Slytherins are giving Albus grief, and fly in for the rescue. This usually ends up with any number of Slytherins in the infirmary and all of those involved serving detentions.

The Sorting is the painfully long, terribly boring affair it always is, forcing them all to sit in wait of a long-expected meal their growing bodies desperately need. Albus is often surprised to find how much food he can devour in one sitting; while his eating habits are as nothing compared to James' in terms of speed or quantity, he still manages to consume far more than can be considered healthy. By the time the puddings vanish, he feels much like he imagines a beached whale must, his overstuffed stomach trying to metabolise the cauldron's worth of shepherds' pie, stew, sausages, gravy, potatoes, yams, and Yorkshire puddings inside. McGonagall is saying something important about the Forbidden Forest and he is truly, honestly trying to listen, but can think of little other than his large, warm four-poster waiting in the dungeons.

Scorpius kicks him hard under the table and he has to bite down sharply on his tongue to keep from yelping.

'...and the Quidditch tryouts will be held this Saturday; all those interested, see your House captains...'

Albus gives Scorpius a dangerous look, clearly expressing '_No_.', but Scorpius, being the evil, conniving bastard that he is, smirks viciously back in a loud, resounding, 'Oh,_ yes_.'.


	2. Friends with Benefits, September, 2023

**Part Two  
**_September, 2023_

_. . .  
_

Albus wants to go down to the dungeons, crawl into his four-poster, and sleep for an eternity. The hours-long train ride always has this effect, and combined with the stuffing his stomach received at the feast, he is sure he could sleep for days. Weeks. A month, quite happily.

But Albus is not going to get any sleep, because Albus has terrible, terrible friends.

'_Guess whaaaat_,' Scorpius sing-songs into his ear, hands firm on his shoulders, breath hot on the back of his neck. 'Guessguessguess_guess_—'

Albus rolls his eyes, but Scorpius takes no notice, because he is propelling Albus forward by the shoulders, fingertips digging into his skin through his robes. They both know there's no need for Albus to guess, but this is all part of the game: the more excited Scorpius gets about something, the less Albus pretends to care, which infuriates him.

'Go on,' Scorpius urges. He's trying valiantly not to rise to the bait, Albus can hear it in his voice, but he always gives in before Albus does, because Albus is not the scion of a wealthy family and isn't used to instant gratification. 'You know you wanna.'

Albus yawns widely, and Scorpius makes a noise of impatience. 'Macnair's left,' Scorpius begins. 'And you know what _that_ means.'

Albus thinks he doesn't care what this means, but indulges him. 'That his snoring won't keep up the entire dungeons anymore?'

'_What it means_,' Scorpius says over him, 'is that _we _need a _Seeker_.'

Albus stops short; Scorpius collides fully with his back, his chest knocking somewhere around Albus' shoulder blades. Despite his height disadvantage, Albus turns his head to glare up at him. 'I already told you, I can't—'

'Give me _one_ good reason,' Scorpius demands.

'James—'

'—that does _not _involve that idiot brother of yours.'

'He's not an idiot.'

Scorpius gives him a look.

'Okay,' Albus admits. 'He's a little bit of an idiot. Sometimes. All right, most of the time. But he's still—'

Scorpius shakes his head, cutting him off by shoving him forward again. Albus is vaguely aware he's being steered towards the stairs to the sixth-year boys' dormitory. 'I don't want to hear it, Potter. _I have seen you fly_, and I swear to Merlin on high if you don't try out for the team—'

Albus has noticed that James and Scorpius have a lot more in common than either would ever likely admit; for one, they both frequently swear on Merlin and many other magical ancestral figures at any opportunity, occasionally even to the point that Albus gets reproachful; they are both addicted to Quidditch to what Albus is convinced is a very unhealthy degree; and both of them seem to be of the opinion that they know what is best for Albus, whether he likes it or not.

'I don't have a broom,' Albus points out, although he does not think this will help his argument at all, because Scorpius, like James, can justify anything regardless of any amount of exonerating evidence at hand.

But Scorpius is quiet, releases his shoulders, and continues on towards the dungeons looking extremely pleased with himself. Albus, who knows that verbalising is something of a natural state for him, is now slightly worried; a silent Scorpius is great cause for alarm.

'Score,' Albus says firmly. He really hates that nickname, but the one time he tried calling Scorpius by his middle name—which Albus personally thinks is ace—Scorpius had called him Severus for the rest of the month. 'What did you do?'

'Relax, Potter,' Scorpius says, without turning around, in that sweet, honeyed tone he gets when he's completely guilty. 'It was nothing illegal.'

. . .

The next morning is bright and unforgivingly hot. Harry opts to Apparate directly into his office and is pleased to see that the weather-crew are evidently as miserable about the blinding heat as the rest of them; sheets of rain hammer against his office window. Fake but convincing thunder rumbles in the faux-distance as he works, almost mechanically, ignoring the biting hunger in his stomach. He has a week to finish organising this mess and focuses on the fact that the more he does now, the less he'll have to do later. He's so absorbed in his work that, when he hears footsteps entering the room, he ignores them; it's probably Jenkins, here to pick up his overloaded paycheque, and he knows where to find it.

Harry Potter has been called many things in his relatively short lifetime thus far, and one side of his office is wallpapered with headlines from throughout his life, from the time of his parents' deaths to this day: the Boy Who Lived; the youngest Seeker in a century; the Chosen One; boy wizard extraordinaire; Dumbledore's right-hand man; Defeater of the Dark Lord; Head Auror; a living, magical prodigy—

'They forgot "a right bespecked git",' says a drawl Harry instantly recognises as _not_ Jenkins. Draco Malfoy is inspecting the newspapered-wall from the door, before his eyes sidle over the tower of forms piled haphazardly on Harry's desk, his silver eyes familiar and smirking. 'Wotcher, Potter.'

Harry greets him with a bespectacled glare, looking vexed and in dire need of a sandwich.

'Do you have food?' Harry demands.

'I _had _food,' Draco informs him, smugly. He comes swaggering into the office, as if it were his own. 'It was very tasty.'

Harry exhales sharply, sending a substantial volume of paper to the floor. 'Get out of my office, Malfoy.'

In the past, Harry had wondered, after all they'd been through, after all he'd seen Draco do and have done to him, after what he'd _been_, how he could even look Harry in the eye. Shortly after the war, it had been infuriating. Harry hadn't understood how Draco could be unaffected by his previous misdeeds, when he should have been too crippled by shame and remorse to even leave his estate. Harry had wanted to pummel him when he walked right into the Ministry after his father's sentencing and asked Kingsley for a job.

Harry had wanted to pummel Kingsley after he'd given him one.

Kingsley had said something about reformation, making up for past wrongs and some other load of bollocks Harry gnawed at internally for years until Draco showed up in his office one day about ten years ago, and, without losing eye contact, apologised for everything and offered him his hand.

Harry, at first, had assumed it was all a ploy, some inter-office gamble with all Draco's gold placed on his own success, and expected someone to peek over a cubicle at any moment to record the result and hand out the winnings accordingly.

And then Draco raised an eyebrow and said, with all of his Malfoy eloquence, 'Potter, if you dismiss me again, I swear I will not hesitate to hex you into next week.'

Harry had shaken his hand.

They weren't friends by any means, and still aren't; but there's been a gradual easing of tension, a strain which lessens a little more every time Draco wanders into his office to annoy him.

'What is all of this? Old reports?' Draco begins picking files off the desk and leafing through them, completely ignoring the bold, red warnings of CONFIDENTIAL stamped on the front. He's not even reading them, just scattering the pages out of order for no reason whatsoever other than to make Harry even more irate than he already is. 'Exploding toilets?' He gives Harry a look over the file in his hands. 'This is what you spend your time doing?'

'Somebody has to do it.'

'No, what somebody has to do, is—' Harry, distracted, sees the wand too late. It's the sort of thing that could get him killed in the field, but to be fair, he was hardly expecting to have a wand drawn on him in his own office. Twenty years ago, he might have. '_Incendio!_'

There is a resounding _whoosh_, the air swirling in a rapid cyclone around Harry's head, and the piles of papers on his desk disappear into a thick layer of delicate ash coating his desk and hair. His office now smells like a well-used Floo, and Draco is grinning down on him like an insane person.

'You'll thank me later,' Draco says, dusting off his hands as he admires his handiwork.

Harry splutters, finally, shaking the ash from his hair and pulling off his glasses, looking for a clean stretch of fabric to wipe them with. Unsuccessful in this, he stands, and Draco makes a small squawk of alarm as Harry reaches for the sleeve of his robes and yanks him forward, using it to clean the lenses.

'For fuck's sake,' Harry snaps, glaring. 'I have enough to do without you being a nuisance; isn't there someone else you—'

'There are _several _someones I would rather annoy, believe me,' Draco interrupts stiffly, yanking his robes back. 'And all of them far more attractive. I am, however, bound by an order from the Minister to assist you personally. Lucky you.'

'Lucky—what?' Harry demands, faltering. He looks at Draco again, this time paying a little more attention. He's wearing the standard-issue dark-green robes everyone in the Ministry wears with the exception of Aurors and Unspeakables, who don maroon and black respectively. He looks less ragged now than on previous occasions Harry's seen him over the years; there's more colour to his face, his skin appearing less transparent, but there are still dark shadows under his eyes, which makes the silver in them seem to glow. His hair is just long enough to brush the line of his jaw, and below, the thin, grizzly tip of a scar is just visible above his high collar.

Draco sees him looking, but doesn't flinch like he used to. 'Yes, _lucky_. Lucky they sent me here to save your department from going under because you don't know how to advertise.'

'My department's not going under,' Harry protests. 'They can't get rid of Aurors.'

'No, they'll just merge you with Magical Law Enforcement, and Merlin knows what good _that _will do.' Draco is looking at the map on the wall, and his brow furrows slightly. 'Still on those, are you.'

'Always,' Harry says, glaring involuntarily at the map. The few who got away, the Death Eaters who slipped under the radar and vanished before Voldemort's fall, or shortly thereafter—Harry has never completely lost their trail, updating their files whenever new, reliable information makes its way to him. He knows he'll catch up, someday. In the meantime, yes, he spends his time on exploding toilets. 'But seriously, Malfoy, what do you want?'

'I told you,' Draco says, giving him a look and a smirk to go with it: 'I'm here to save your arse.'

'That'll make a change,' Harry says, and immediately regrets it as Draco winces. 'You're too old to recruit, sorry.'

'I'll have you know I am not too old for _anything_, Potter,' Draco says, his drawl returning quickly.

Harry snorts, shaking his head. Well, it's partially true. At forty-two, neither of them really qualifies as 'old' by wizarding standards. But he knows Draco, like himself, feels a good decade older than his years: a penalty for growing up as quickly as they were forced to.

'Anyway,' Draco says, ridding the office of the ashy remains of Harry's filing cabinet with another flick of his wand, 'the Minister seems to have finally noticed my unrivalled skill at raising _esprit de corps_ and wants to put my talents to good use.'

'Uh-huh,' Harry says. 'So what's in it for you?'

Draco smiles brilliantly at him. 'A _very _nice bonus. _And _a promotion, if I can triple your recruits within a two-year period.'

'Why would you even need the—two _years?_' Harry says in shock. 'I have to put up with you for_ two years?_'

'Don't look so horrified, you won't even notice I'm here,' Draco assures him, waving a hand dismissively. He looks around Harry's office critically, arms folded and eyebrows knitted together. 'But, ah, first things first. I need somewhere to put my desk.'

'You're not moving into my office,' Harry says firmly.

'Why not?'

'Because it's _mine?_'

'It's big enough,' Draco decides, assessing the available space. 'Also, I'll need your activity logs, employee register, and copies of any pending applications.' He looks expectantly at Harry, who glares at him. 'What?'

'You just _incinerated everything_, Malfoy.'

'Oh.' Draco makes a face, then shrugs. Harry can feel the beginnings of a migraine like an oncoming train, the bells and whistles ringing away. 'Ah, well, probably wasn't anything too important. D'you want to grab some tea?'

. . .

The interior of Hogwarts is dark and gloomy; outside, the forest looks eerie in the twilight. It's one of the few places even his father has forbidden him from wandering; being the curious delinquent he is, Scorpius is consequently very familiar with the woods' mysterious, misty innards.

His footfalls are soft, almost silent, as he slips quickly through the corridor leading from the Owlry on the grounds. His ankles are wet with dew from the sodden grass outside, but he ignores the discomfort in his hurry. Not that it's technically after dark, he reasons—more before daybreak—and so there's no reason he shouldn't be out in the halls, except that for some reason, James Potter has an uncanny ability of knowing whenever Scorpius is somewhere he perhaps shouldn't be, and appears to annoy him.

'What are you doing, Malfoy?'

Scorpius regards him coldly. He doesn't even bother with a response; he halts only briefly before resuming his pace. The stairs to the dungeons are just ahead—

But as he goes to pass James, someone steps out of his shadow, forcing Scorpius to stop once more. Oh, lovely, he brought his pet Head Boy.

'It's a perfectly legitimate question,' Dominique says. He even sounds reasonable, but Scorpius can see his smirk despite the shadows. 'You're a Prefect, Malfoy, you should know better than to be out of the dungeons after dark.'

'Technically,' Scorpius says, his voice sharp, 'it's morning.'

'Nice hair,' James observes. 'Your dad so ashamed of you he doesn't even want people to think you're related?'

'He'd have to remove his face to do that,' Dominique points out.

'I'd happily take care of that,' James volunteers, eyes refocusing on Scorpius, who is debating upon the best escape route in case this gets ugly. 'Not that anyone in their right minds would _want _to be related to scum like your father.'

Scorpius regards him in silence, but with an intensity that would persuade most from pursuing this further; James, however, is typically oblivious to the dangerous waters he's treading. Dominique glances between the two, sensing the danger, but unsure of how to defuse the situation—both boys are as stubborn as they are brutal, particularly in matters of pride.

'Your lot's getting stupider by the generation; that's inbreeding for you,' James continues haughtily, taking a step closer. Scorpius' stomach clenches involuntarily; James likes to bring his targets into point-blank range before making a move, whereas Scorpius much prefers the advantages afforded by a safe distance. This close up, he sees, James' eyes are nothing like Albus'. They are larger, meaner, luminous chestnuts. 'Even your father wasn't idiotic enough to wander around on his own.'

'You're forgetting,' Scorpius replies, eyes slanted sideways and focusing on his enemy, his voice as cold as the morning air, 'that unlike my father, _I_ am no coward.'

'You're right about him at least,' James says, sneering impressively. 'But if you think _you're_ fooling anyone—'

Scorpius just barely contains the urge to snort. 'Honestly, Potter, I couldn't care less what a plebeian like yourself thought of me,' he says, and adds an afterthought, '_or _my father.'

James' lip curls, but Dominique cuts him off with a quick motion of his hand. Instead, Dominique demands, 'What's in the case?'

The case, which Scorpius has had tucked close to his other side, is heavy and thick, longer than he is tall. He tightens his grip on it. 'You don't want to know, Weasley.'

'Oh, I think I do.'

'And_ I _think neither of you have any right to interrogate me,' he snarls, turning to face them fully. He is as tall as James now, having caught up over the summer. James seems to notice this, too, but there are two of them and only one of him—and even Scorpius isn't stupid enough to engage James Potter in a duel if he can avoid it, because both of Harry Potter's sons have inherited his reflexes, both with a wand and on a broom.

The first hints of sunlight are bubbling over the horizon in the distance, and Scorpius sees Dominique pull the corner of a piece of parchment out of his pocket, glance at it, and elbow James in the side. James looks at him, and something unspoken must pass between them, because when James speaks again, he seems to yield, though not without a parting threat.

'Watch yourself, Malfoy,' James says. 'Wouldn't want to find yourself alone again.'

Scorpius, this time, does snort. He walks past them quickly, practically snarling, 'Any time, Potter. _Any _time.'

He does not know if James hears him.

. . .

The first week of term, as is its wont, has flown by in a blur, and Albus is slightly worried about the homework piling up dangerously around him on all sides. Scorpius is irritatingly unbothered, because Scorpius is uncannily good at working under pressure and can get it all done on Sunday evening, if he so wishes.

It is Saturday, and Albus has decided do his homework today; if he's up in time for breakfast, he can be finished by this evening, and then he can sleep the day away tomorrow: a fine plan. He likes his sleep long and uninterrupted.

Yet Albus is up long before breakfast—probably before the house-elves, even.

Not by choice—Albus can sleep like the dead and is quite content with the fact. After all, he and sleep have known one another for many years and it's been a long, stable relationship. He plans to marry sleep someday. But Albus truly does have horrible friends, friends who are obviously jealous at sleep for hogging all of Albus' attention.

'Mornin', sugar,' comes the sultry murmur in his ear.

Albus groans and tries in vain to roll away from the voice. Something heavy is straddling his back, just below the shoulders, and he thinks he feels knees in his armpits. There are hands over his eyes, which isn't really necessary, as Albus can't see anything in the dark without his glasses anyway. His face is buried in his pillow, so when he tries to say something it comes out as a muffled _mmmphm mmffgh mm mmph_.

'_Shh_.' Scorpius is a strange, strange boy; Albus has come to accept this over the years. Accept, but not always enjoy. He groans again, and Scorpius hisses, 'The others're still asleep, keep it down.'

'_I_ want to still be asleep,' Albus manages to grumble once Scorpius has got off his back and removed his hands. 'What are you doing?'

Scorpius opens the bed curtains and grabs his glasses off the night table, handing them to Albus, who jams them on despite his agitation. In the half-light of the morning, Scorpius' pale complexion makes him appear more cadaverous than any healthy, growing teenage boy has a right to. Luminescent, mercurial eyes accompany a finely moulded nose and chin, the edges of which are somehow sharper than seems natural, and these frame thin, somewhat pallid lips of a rather attractive curve. Albus decides, despite the radical change of his hair, he won't mention that Scorpius still looks extraordinarily like his father.

'Where's the cloak?'

'In my—why?' Albus yawns as Scorpius leans over the edge of his bed; there's a quiet rustling as he pulls out Albus' trunk and begins rifling around inside. By the time Albus has sat up, rubbing his eyes and continuing to yawn, Scorpius already has the cloak and is attempting to unfold it. 'Are you going to tell me what's going on?'

'Madness,' Scorpius mutters. Albus is inclined to agree. 'This—bugger it,' he says, giving up, and tossing the cloak to Albus. 'Why are you just sitting there? Get up, get dressed! It's getting late.'

'_Late_? The sun's not even up!' Albus hisses. Sleep deprivation renders him cranky; he glares at Scorpius.

'Don't look at me like that,' Scorpius says, his voice softer than usual in an effort to keep it low. 'You can sleep later. We'll have _nap time_, if you like.'

Albus sighs, and Scorpius smiles, painfully white teeth flashing in the darkness. This is Albus giving in, and this is Scorpius getting his insane, early-morning way. 'You're a bastard.'

'You love it,' Scorpius drawls in return, drumming his fingers against his thigh as Albus stumbles out into the dark room, changing out of his pyjamas. Scorpius watches him, unabashed and impatient. By the time Albus has forced his way into his jumper and emerged, scruffier than usual, Scorpius has laid a long, thin black case on his vacated bed.

Oh, _no_.

'What did you—' Albus begins at full volume.

Scorpius is on him in a flash, hand placed firmly over his mouth, inches apart, his breath warm on Albus' face; he hasn't bothered to brush his teeth yet, Albus notices as he whispers, 'Humour me and just have a look, will you? _Quietly_.'

Albus squints at him, then at the case. Scorpius follows Albus back to his bed, crawling inside after him and yanking the curtains shut.

'_Lumos_.' A wand-tip ignites in the darkness. Scorpius is a ghostly, incorporeal figure in the dim blue glow. 'Go on,' he encourages.

Albus carefully unlatches the case and pulls the lid back gently.

He blinks. It isn't just an Eclipse.

It's _two_.

'Sweet buggering hippogriffs,' Albus says finally. It's hard to keep his voice to a whisper; he has to forcibly remind himself that there are still other people asleep in the room. 'Did you—'

Scorpius, beside him, grins like a maniac. 'I _did_.'

'But your father—'

'Screw my father,' Scorpius snaps, quietly but curtly, and Albus drops it. You don't go around inspecting a gift-broom in the twigs, after all. 'You owe me a _shag_, Potter.'

'I—' Albus says, staring at the broom. 'I do,' he breathes, still staring in awe.

The handle is carved out of a deep, red mahogany, so dark it almost resembles ebony. The twigs are black at the roots, gradually fading into a bright, snowy white at the tips. It's incredibly long, expertly streamlined and has a delicate matte finish. It's beautiful right down to the detail in the grain, Albus observes, still staring. He almost asks Scorpius how much, then decides he doesn't want to know.

'You bet your arse you do.' Scorpius' hands are balled into anxious fists on his thighs as Albus inspects the broom, his eyes roaming over it reverently, and he's hovering half-over his shoulder seeming ready to burst. '_Well?_'

Albus swallows. Well, _bugger_, is what. Now he literally has no choice in the matter. 'Jamie is going to _kill me_.'

'_Jamie_,' Scorpius says, his hushed voice thick with overt delight, 'will not be able to _catch you_.'

Albus, still looking at the broom in his hands, reckons this is very true; but he also knows that James Potter never goes quietly when things do not go his way—and even if Albus can outrun him on a broom, he is sure his brother will _find a way_ to definitely, certainly, most indubitably _kill him_.

He thinks it should probably worry him more that this thought does nothing to wipe the grin off his face.

. . .


	3. Broomsticks and Bludgers, October, 2023

**Part Three  
**_October, 2023_  
_  
_

. . .

In the changing rooms, Albus rubs the bridge of his nose. Scorpius has confiscated his glasses, having waved a wand in his face to temporarily fix his eyesight.

'No mistakes,' Scorpius said, flashing him a grin. 'Can't risk you fogging up out there.'

Albus didn't argue, but feels naked without his glasses. He hopes that the spell _is _only temporary—Scorpius has been trying for years to get rid of his 'ridiculous specs' but Albus always solidly refuses. He likes his glasses, dammit.

'Score,' Albus hears Max call, 'you in there already?'

'Yo,' Scorpius answers, head cocking in the direction of the voice. Maximilian Flint and the rest of the team come surging into the room—including their sole female player, Jocelyn Rosier. She's been on the team since their third year, and since the beginning has refused to share the girls' changing room alone with 'all of those bloody Gryffindorks'. Albus finds her presence a little worrisome but none of the other boys seem to mind having her around (including the opposing team members), so he just looks the other way as she begins changing into her uniform.

Scorpius tilts his head, watching her with a subtle smile, the unabashed pervert. Albus rolls his eyes and slides down to the ground, back against the lockers, trying to hide in Scorpius' shadow.

Despite the fact that half of Slytherin's players look simply too large and ungainly to be effective fliers—Jake Carrow and Canis Avery, the Beaters, are both rather short but very stalwart, and Max himself looks as if he could take on a chimera bare-handed, and rightly so, as he defends the hoops against the most formidable trio of Chasers Gryffindor's ever had the luck to assemble—they've come in second for the Cup five years running. Jocelyn and Scorpius, who possess the more slender physiques their role requires, are frighteningly coordinated on the pitch; the only thing that's kept them from the Cup, Scorpius tells him, is that they cannot find a third Chaser who can keep up—nor a Seeker that can best Gryffindor's.

None of them pay any attention to Albus; its not unusual for him to be here, even though he's not on the team, because he goes everywhere Scorpius goes. Albus wonders if anyone will notice that Scorpius is holding on to _two_ new broomsticks.

'_So_,' Max says, shrugging his broom off his shoulder, 'Seeker and Chaser.' He glances at them quickly, and adds, 'Assuming the rest of you haven't forgotten how to play over the summer.' He gives Scorpius a meaningful look, smirking; Scorpius gives him the finger.

'Yaxley's coming down,' Canis informs them.

'He's going for Chaser, I think,' Max says, shaking his head. 'I'm more worried about the Seeker. Macnair was all right—though not fantastic—but none of the new runts look very promising.'

'Second-years are idiots anyway,' Jocelyn points out. 'Cas and Polly are coming down, and so's Amelia. I haven't seen her much on a broom, but she's built perfect for Seeking—'

'We don't need a Seeker,' Scorpius interrupts.

'Oh, swapping sides, are you?' Jocelyn says, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks at her. 'Hardly.' She smirks back, and Albus makes a quiet gagging noise, which Scorpius quiets with a light kick. 'But I've taken care of it.'

Scorpius steps away, bringing Albus into full view, and Albus wants to clobber him, because, suddenly, _everyone _is paying attention to him. He glares up at Scorpius through his hair; Scorpius ignores him.

'You've gotta be kidding,' Jake sneers, rolling his eyes. 'He can't go through a corridor straight.'

'He's not on a broom in the corridors,' Scorpius points out, shrugging; Albus thinks he is the only one who hears the growl in Scorpius' voice.

Canis is staring at Albus, forehead wrinkled in thought. 'Even if he _can _fly, how can you trust him out there against his brother? How do we know he's not just here because Potter wants to sabotage the match?'

'You let me worry about his brother,' Scorpius says, before Albus can open his mouth to stupidly defend James in front of the entire Slytherin team. 'He's Seeking—the jobs don't overlap, it's not going to be a problem.'

Max is perhaps the only one looking at Albus with any real consideration. He looks up at Scorpius, who nods in return with a significant look.

'Trust me,' Scorpius says.

Max looks back to Albus and shrugs. 'All right, Potter. Let's see what you've got.'

'Does he even have a broom?' Jake asks.

'Oh, _does _he ever,' Albus hears Scorpius whisper above him.

. . .

'I am the luckiest man alive,' James declares.

Dominique is inclined to agree—though he feels that James Potter is also, perhaps, the _un_luckiest, a joint title he seems to have inherited from his father, as every burst of luck that he gets also has strings attached, strings that tangle the luck into a dangerous, chaotic knot that James tends to inevitably trip over and ends up flat on his face.

'I love being me,' James goes on. On his other side, Clarissa is looking away; Dominique pretends not to notice. 'I mean, really, who wouldn't?'

James is smiling now, but later it will be terrible. Dominique knows. This has happened before, and the end result wasn't pretty—but _totally _worth it, or at least that's what James says whenever Dominique tries to remind him.

On the pitch, Violet Brown and Olivia Walker are glaring daggers at one another. Violet is certainly more James' type: a shallow, superficial, haughty, wanton trollop of a Seventh Year with fantastic features. Olivia is none of these, a little young at fourteen, but is certainly appealing enough to grab his attention; she's already curvy enough to interest any boy of their age, with large, liquid eyes. According to Lilly, she's also very smart, despite being a Muggleborn—not that a girl's intellect is of any concern to James Potter, whose attention is focused purely on the physical. Dominique's sure he'll grow out of it one day.

Hopefully.

But this will end badly, because no matter who is chosen for the team, James will want them both—and what James Potter wants, he gets, however temporarily.

'Violet's more likely to let you up her skirt,' Nikolas says helpfully in the background.

'Olivia's better on a broom,' Clarissa points out, still looking off into the distance.

'Violet'd look better in the showers, too,' James thinks aloud. 'Hey, Dommy?' he says, rolling his head sideways onto Dominique's shoulder. 'D'ya think we can keep them both?'

'Lily's a far better Seeker than either of them,' Dominique reminds him.

'But she's my _sister_,' James mopes. 'I don't want to see my sister in the showers.'

'You won't be seeing _anyone _in the showers,' Lily Potter says, landing neatly and slinging her broom over her shoulder. 'Honestly, don't you have _any _shame?'

James appears to think this over briefly. 'No, not really.' He turns his attention back to Dominique. 'I can't decide,' he whines, eyes wide and distraught. 'Help me!'

'Oh, the burdens of being Captain,' Dominique says, rolling his eyes.

'Oi, snakes on the field,' Nikolas warns.

Dominique looks, as does everyone, and sees this is indeed true; Gryffindor only have the pitch booked for an hour, and Slytherin are next in line. Dominique and the others grab their brooms, intent on clearing off, but James holds his ground. He's glaring at the Slytherin team as if they've somehow insulted him personally, even though they're so far off that he can't possibly have heard anything that's being said.

'Hey,' Dominique says, 'you coming?'

James says nothing; he shoulders his broom, and begins to storm down the pitch. Dominique blinks and looks up at the oncoming Slytherins, and comprehension dawns—at the rear of the team, Albus is walking side-by-side with Scorpius Malfoy, a polished Eclipse slung over each of their shoulders.

James is already arguing with his brother by the time Dominique and the rest of the Gryffindor team catch up. Well, to be fair, 'argument' is probably a bit too generous a term for something so one-sided; Albus is just stood quietly, which only serves to fuel James' anger further. Topic number one seems to be how in the _hell _Albus got an Eclipse, and just-as-important topic number two is, 'You can't fucking play for the snakes!'

'My team, Potter,' Flint says sharply, stepping forward. He's the biggest of all of them, his shoulders almost twice as wide as James'. 'My rules, not yours.'

'_My _brother,' James snaps, fearless, eyes blazing. Scorpius is watching him, looking amused. James turns his attention back to Albus, who closes his eyes and sighs softly. 'Just what the hell are you playing at?'

Albus finally looks at him, and shrugs. 'Dad wanted me to try out, remember?'

James looks surprised by this response, but recovers quickly. 'And since when do you do what _Dad _wants? Did _he _buy you the broom?'

'No,' Albus says quickly, but doesn't seem to want to elaborate any further. 'Anyway, I'm just trying out, it's not like I'm on the team already.'

'Good point,' Flint agrees, his eyes on the edge of the pitch. Three more Slytherins are heading their way, one with his own broom, the other two without. 'If that's all, Potter, we have tryouts to hold.'

'The hell that's all,' James snaps. He takes Albus by the elbow, and Albus goes easily; Scorpius almost moves to intervene, but seems to catch himself. Dominique raises an eyebrow. 'My brother and I need to have a little _chat_.'

Watching them go, Scorpius balls his hands into fists. 'Let's do Chasers first,' he suggests, glancing sideways at Flint.

'Yes,' Flint agrees, 'let's.'

. . .

'_Ow_,' Albus says, with feeling.

'Shut up,' James commands, ignoring him.

Albus is being dragged unceremoniously around the back of a broom-shed, and wonders if this is where James plans to kill him. There are plenty of places for him to hide the body back here, surely, but an awful lot of people watched James drag him off so maybe James plans to save the murder for another time, and just beat Albus to a pulp for now.

James stares at him for a long time; unsure of how to breach the silence, Albus stares back. He wishes he had his glasses to hide behind.

'What the hell are you doing?' James finally demands.

'Er,' Albus starts. 'Trying out for the team?'

James makes a noise like an enraged bull, cuffing the ground with the side of his boot. 'You know what I mean, smartarse.'

Albus doesn't think he has a clue what James means, but instead of saying so, he asks, 'Why is it such a big deal?'

'Why is it a—' James throws his hands into the air, as if the entire world has gone insane and nobody seems to realise it but him. 'Al, you'd be playing for the _snakes_, playing against _me_—and Lily, and Hugh, and Dom, and—'

'So what?' Albus says. 'It's just a game.'

'Just a game?' James demands, and Albus recognises his tone. Scorpius sounds like that whenever Albus suggests they do something other than practice Quidditch during his secret summer excursions to Malfoy Manor, because _nothing could be more serious than Quidditch_. 'Have you lost your mind? And anyway, this is beside the point, really, because you still haven't told me where you got that broom.'

He says the word 'broom' like it's vulgar, and Albus winces. 'I swear, Dad didn't—'

'Of course he didn't, or he would have got me one, too,' James says, oddly reasonable in the midst of his raging. Albus suspects his brother already knows the answer he's reluctant to divulge, but it seems he wants to be told just the same, to make sure he hasn't gone insane with the rest of the world. '_Al_—'

Albus mumbles something, very quickly, and James grabs him by the shoulders. 'Come again?'

'I said,' Albus says, eyes downcast, 'that _Malfoy _bought me the broom.'

There is a stillness, and Albus is scared to look up, lest he see James' wand descending on him for the killing blow. It never comes; Albus looks up, stunned, to see James laughing.

'Oh, that's a good one,' James says, between chortles, his eyes beginning to water. 'Look, Al, I know you've been saving your pocket money every summer since you started school, but I had no idea it was enough to buy a _broom_.' He raises his eyebrows hopefully. 'You're gonna let me borrow it for games, right?'

Albus squints at him. 'Er. Sure? But—'

James claps him in what Albus imagines he thinks is a brotherly way on the shoulder, beaming. 'Excellent! And you know,' he continues, slinging an arm around Albus' shoulders and slowly leading him around the broom-shed, 'you could have just showed me the broom sometime; you didn't have to come down here to try out, and all. Those snakes will probably kill you and try to make it look like an accident.'

Albus digs his heels into the ground, stopping dead.

James turns to him, blinking, and notices Albus is glaring at him. 'What?'

'I didn't come down here just to show you the broom, you complete and utter tit,' Albus snaps, abruptly though quite clearly, so there is no chance his idiot older brother can mistake his words. He doesn't know where this anger is coming from, only that he can feel it lacing through his veins like a poison, beginning to seep out of every pore. 'I didn't come down here for any other reason than to try out for my house team.'

James, bewildered, simply stares at him for a moment. He looks as if he is trying to find the joke in Albus' words, the lurking smirk at the corner of his mouth that would reassure James that he doesn't really mean any of it.

Albus is not smirking. Convincing himself he no longer cares if James drags him back behind the shed to murder him, he shrugs James' arm off his shoulder. He shoves past his brother, harder than is probably necessary, pausing just long enough to say, 'And I didn't buy the broom. _Score _did.'

: : :

Harry has had a lot of strange experiences in his life, but very few of them top lounging outside in the Ministry gardens, sharing takeaway fish and chips with Draco Malfoy.

'You know, it's truly amazing they can't see us,' Draco says, admiring the spellwork that protects the garden. 'The wards for this must be incredibly complex.'

Central London surrounds them in a flurry of weekend Muggle activity, but not a single eye focuses in their direction. Harry was pleased when they demolished the ugly warehouse atop the Ministry and replaced it with the mini-park, laden with oaks, firs, and willows that cast blankets of shade on the thick grass in summer. They are both reclining on a white bench beside the central fountain, which features a rearing unicorn, spouting water from its mane and tail. The noon sun reflects off Draco's hair as off virgin snow, blinding Harry every time Draco tilts his head down to locate more food.

'Mmm,' Harry agrees. He oversaw the final spell-prints before they were cast, just to make sure they were solid. He yawns, stretching in the somnolent sun. 'Yeah.'

The park is practically deserted, because it is Saturday. Harry has Sundays and Mondays off because most of their calls tend to come in on Friday and Saturday nights, and he'd rather be here for the worst of it than leave it in the hands of someone else. Upon arriving this afternoon, he found Draco already at his desk, in Harry's office, poring over old budget reports, evidently accepting of the new routine.

'Working weekends isn't so bad,' Draco says. Harry can't see Draco's eyes behind the blinding light of his hair, but can feel them on him. 'There's nobody here to annoy you. It's quite an ingenious schedule you've got.'

Well, that's half-true. Nobody to annoy him except the people out there causing trouble that he will have to go and fix, hopefully making a few arrests in the process. Harry likes making arrests almost as much as Draco likes setting the little bastards free on the streets to keep him busy.

Harry squints. 'Hey, Malfoy?'

Draco, halfway through a mouthful of chips, tilts his head back, baring his throat to the sun. 'Hm?'

'Why did you become a lawyer?'

Draco pauses in his chewing, and slowly sits up. It had almost been more of a shock to Harry to learn precisely _what _job Kingsley had offered Draco than that he'd offered him one at all. At first he was just given bottom-rung assignments, the sort of attorney assigned to people in need of one but with no gold to afford one of their own—and when Draco started winning every single case he was given, Kingsley offered him a promotion. Now, he's Undersecretary to the Crown Prosecutor of the Ministry, a rather prestigious position for one still bearing the Dark Mark under his robes.

'Do you remember,' Draco begins thoughtfully, 'after my father's sentencing, when the Ministry went after my estate?'

Harry nods. How could he not? It had made the _Prophet _headlines for nine months straight. 'They were trying to confiscate any Dark artefacts,' Harry says, remembering some of the articles he'd read. 'And anything else Lucius had accumulated to assist Voldemort.'

It is a testament to how Voldemort has affected Draco that he still flinches at the name. 'Yes,' he agrees, and looks at Harry, 'along with everything else.'

Harry squints again. 'Everything?'

'It's amazing what pertinent information the media leave out, isn't it?' Draco smirks, darkly, and now Harry understands him; the _Prophet _has put Harry through the wringer more times than he cares to remember. 'They would have left my mother and me with nothing—and neither of us had any hope of employment so soon after the war, either. And nobody would take the case, no matter how much gold we offered—didn't want to be seen defending a family of Death Eaters. So I defended the case myself.'

Harry remembers that headline, too._ NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD MALFOY HEIR TO DEFEND: Drop-out Death Eater Draco Malfoy steps forward to defend his own case! _People laughed at him, and it became a running joke in the offices of the Ministry for the nine months the case was in court.

Until Draco won.

'That's why Kingsley gave me a job, you know,' Draco says, smiling a little. 'Said to me that if I could win _that _case, he'd rather have me on his side. Smart man.'

'And yet here you are, rummaging through old budget reports for me,' Harry points out.

'Well, somebody has to do it,' Draco reminds him, grinning. 'Do you know what kind of ingenuity it takes to defend a Class-A case against the Wizengamot when you're a teenager? A teenage Death Eater, at that. You're going to need that kind of creativity or you're going to be out of Aurors,' Draco explains, 'and _that's_ why I'm here.'

'Thank Merlin,' Harry says, rolling his eyes, reaching for the last chip in the box. 'The great Draco Malfoy is here to save us.'

'Indeed,' Draco says, snatching the chip out from under him and finishing it off.

. . .

Albus doesn't wait until he's back to the pitch. As soon as he's clear of James, he mounts his broom, carelessly throwing his leg over the Eclipse, and kicks off hard from the ground.

The wind rushes past his ears, and Albus inhales deeply, letting the scent of the air saturate him, cleansing the poison coursing through him. The Eclipse acts like an extension of himself, carrying him higher and swerving at the lightest of touches, allowing him to ride it like a board in the surf, cutting an invisible path through the sky.

The pitch opens up beneath him, wide and thick with green, dotted with Slytherins and Gryffindors far below. He can see James, stalking back towards his team-mates, and can almost imagine the furious look on his face. Albus finds he does not care, because he is in the air where nothing matters except the fact that he is flying. Gravity itself can't coax him down from here. In fact if it weren't for the necessity of eating and sleeping, he may never be persuaded to come back down at all.

There is another pressing matter, however, and Albus can see it despite the height he's ascended to. He spots the silver gaze glittering at him in the afternoon sun, as clearly as he can see the Snitch sparkling in Scorpius' hands, fluttering madly in its attempt to get free. Somebody points upward and shouts as Scorpius releases his captive, throwing it hard and fast into the air, with an arm that could fling a cannonball through a hoop two sizes too small.

Albus gives in to gravity's insistent tug, and plummets.

This is too easy, Albus thinks. It's as if the Snitch isn't even trying to run, but flies right into his outstretched hand. The ground, too, seems to be flying right at Albus, and he banks sharply up and to the left to avoid becoming a silver-and-green crater. Jocelyn is catcalling in the background, and Scorpius is beside him, looking smug, and there is James behind them all, standing with Albus' dumbstruck family and friends, a shade redder than his robes.

'Merlin, Potter,' Max says, looking like he's struck gold. 'Why the hell didn't you try out _years _ago?'

. . .


	4. Slytherin vs Gryffindor, November, 2023

**Part IV**  
Slytherin vs Gryffindor  
_November, 2023_

_. . .  
_

James Potter is trying to kill his little brother.

Albus, covered in butter and jam, stares bleakly down at the smoking remains of his morning toast. He'd barely taken his first bite before his breakfast exploded, spraying jam up his nose and singeing his eyebrows. Albus' eyes, protected behind his glasses, glare reproachfully at the red-and-gold table beyond, where James is twirling his wand idly, doing his best to look innocent.

Scorpius chooses this moment to slide into the seat opposite Albus, blocking his view of James. He raises an eyebrow. 'You've got jam on your nose.'

Albus, muttering under his breath, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his robe, ignoring Scorpius' disapproving look. It's a habit he shares with James, this utter disregard for his clothes and his standard of personal hygiene in general, because Albus like James is a teenage boy and would rather have jam on his sleeve than on his nose.

His muttering has not gone unnoticed, but Albus is surprised to find Scorpius looking only rather disappointed. 'Bit pathetic, really. It's going to take more than booby-trapped toast to win them the match today.'

'A Bludger to the head would suffice,' Albus points out, trying to get the butter out of his hair with a napkin, but succeeding only in spreading it about. Scorpius, rolling his eyes, gives his wand a lazy wave and siphons the greasy substance out for him. 'Though, if I hadn't been wearing my glasses, that could well have blinded me.'

Scorpius waves a dismissive hand. 'If he wanted to disable you, he would have done it by now, he's had weeks.' A wicked grin, well-known to Albus, spreads over his face. 'I wouldn't put anything past him once we've won, though.'

'You seem awfully confident,' Albus points out. '_I'm_ the one who has to catch it before they kill me.'

'You concentrate on the Snitch, we'll deal with them,' Scorpius says firmly. 'Anyway, don't worry. Gryffindor are too _noble_ to win the match by underhanded means.'

'This _is_ my brother we're talking about, right?' Albus says in disbelief.

Scorpius smirks at him, and Albus drops it, because he knows nothing he says will convince Scorpius. Over his shoulder, James is also smirking at him from across the hall. Very discretely, he draws the tip of his wand from one side of his throat to the other.

Albus sighs. He knows that, regardless of who wins, this is going to end badly.

. . .

Harry blinks at the wall outside his office. He's _got_ to be joking.

Draco, evidently impressed at his own ingenuity, beams at him from the doorway. 'Isn't it _awesome?_'

'You're insane.'

Draco rolls his eyes in a very tolerant fashion, shaking his head as he steps in beside Harry to admire his work. 'You say insane, I say: _genius_.'

There are a dozen or so sheets pasted to the wall, fruits of Draco's relatively quiet work over the past few months. All are rough designs of various slogans, obviously aimed at interesting young witches and wizards in joining the Ministry Aurors. The largest and most central proclaims:

_**AURORS GET THE BABES**_  
_A job that pays – in more ways than one! Enlist today!_

'I was thinking we could use an old picture of Weasley, just along the edge there,' Draco adds, looking pleased. 'Think she'd be keen?'

'I am going to kill you,' Harry tells him.

'Don't even try to pretend it's not true,' Draco says. 'No girls even _looked_ your way until they started proclaiming you were the Chosen Boy. Heroes are _always_ popular.'

'That is _not—_nor any of your bloody—this job isn't about getting laid!' Harry snaps, flustered, perhaps a bit too loudly. His employees are staring at him round the edges of their cubicles. 'Get back to work!' he tells them sharply, before seizing Draco by the shoulders and propelling him back to the safety of his office.

'Oh _please_,' Draco says, ignoring the look Harry gives him as he slams the door closed. 'Every job is about getting laid. Why else would anyone get out of bed in the morning?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Harry says, slumping down at his desk, 'to pay the mortgage?'

'Ah,' says Draco, 'my point exactly! You'd still be living in that shack of an apartment, living paycheque to paycheque, had you not married one of said babes and produced your own little spawn.'

'You certainly have a way with words,' Harry remarks, marvelling at Draco's logic. 'Well, now that we've taken care of the wizard recruits, what genius plan do you have up your sleeve to hook young witches?'

'Oh, that'll be much easier,' Draco assures him, smirking. 'Once they get a good look at all of your young, handsome _wizard_ recruits—'

'You're unbelievable,' Harry tells him.

'Sex sells,' Draco insists firmly. 'Anyway, that, on top of the benefits and pay, should be more than enough to get them interested.'

'Recruits aren't paid as much as Aurors,' Harry reminds him.

'No, but they're paid a lot better than most, especially for right out of school. Besides,' Draco adds, 'the hours are mad. Compulsory overtime equals extra gold. Kids love gold.'

'You would know.'

'And,' Draco continues, 'I sent an owl to McGonagall.'

Harry raises his eyebrows, intrigued. 'And?'

'She was kind enough to reply with a list of NEWT students that showed some interest to our inquires.'

Draco hands him the list, a roll of parchment that's already been opened. Harry scans it quickly, and frowns. It's relatively short, with both familiar and unfamiliar surnames of sixth- and seventh-year students currently studying the subjects required for enlisting with the Aurors. One name in particular leaps out at him.

He looks up at Draco, whose grey eyes are as unreadable as ever. 'You're okay with this?'

Draco's mouth twists into a funny shape, not quite a smirk. 'Are you?'

Harry, unsure, does not answer. 'It's about time to head out,' he says instead, standing. He shrugs on his cloak, looking curiously at Draco when he doesn't move. 'Aren't you coming?'

Draco blinks. 'Coming where?'

'The match,' Harry says, blinking as well. 'First of the season? It's Albus' first game.'

'Oh.' Draco suddenly seems very interested in his fingernails. 'I don't usually—lot of work to do, you know—'

'Oh, bollocks,' says Harry, throwing him his cloak. 'You're coming. Slytherin actually have a fair chance at winning this year.'

'As opposed to an _un_fair one?' Draco snaps, glaring up at him.

'Anyway,' Harry continues, unfazed, 'I would have thought you'd like an excuse to see Scorpius.'

Draco says nothing, but stands and puts on his cloak. The scar on his throat shimmers in the light as he fixes the clasp. Once ready, he gives Harry a pointed look. 'I'm putting this down on my timesheet,' he declares.

. . .

The sky overhead is the colour of steel, a dark contrast to the fresh snow on the ground. The wind howls as it cuts through the stadium, badgering the door to the changing room. Albus shivers and pulls his cloak tighter around him. Scorpius scoots a little closer and Albus leans on him, grateful for the warmth. The rest of the team, heads bent towards Max, trying to hear his pre-game spiel, do not take notice.

'If I die,' Albus whispers through chattering teeth, 'Jamie gets my Eclipse.'

'Over my dead body,' Scorpius hisses back. 'I'd sooner burn it.'

'You're supposed to reassure me,' Albus points out, only somewhat sarcastically. Scorpius winks at him. For some reason, he's not cold at all, even though he's lent Jocelyn his cloak. Albus shudders as another blast of wind slams into the door, sneaking in through the gap at the bottom. Max is saying something about offensive tactics but Albus can't hear anything over the howling wind outside the door.

'You'll do brilliant,' Scorpius tells him. 'I won't let him near you.' Albus doesn't point out that he isn't worried about James so much as a Bludger with his name on it. Scorpius, reading his mind, adds, 'Jake and Canis are on your defence full-time.'

'What about you guys?' Albus asks, alarmed by this news.

Scorpius smirks. 'We've got a few tricks up our sleeves, don't worry.'

'You don't need to play dirty on my account.'

'Think of it more as tradition.'

Albus rolls his eyes.

'Oi, you two,' Max calls, and they both look up in time to catch the broomsticks Max's tossed them. 'Let's go!'

Trailing behind the rest of the team, Albus uses Scorpius to shield himself as they leave the changing room. Just his luck, he thinks, that an early winter storm decides to blow in the day of his first match. He rubs the bridge of his nose nervously; Scorpius has confiscated his glasses, temporarily fixing his eyesight again for the match, and Albus feels naked without them.

His thoughts are interrupted as he walks headlong into Scorpius, who has come to an abrupt halt just outside the door. Slightly dazed, he comes up beside his friend, and blinks. '_Dad?_'

'Hey,' Harry says, looking rather large and imposing in his Auror gear. A long cloak is flapping in the wind behind him, and half-hidden behind it stands a taller figure Albus recognises at once. It's only Scorpius' grip on his elbow that keeps Albus from greeting the elder Malfoy, who looks about as pleased to be there as Scorpius does to see him.

'Father,' Scorpius says shortly, voice as rigid as his posture. Mr Malfoy acknowledges him with nothing more than a glare.

Harry, oblivious to this, has come to stand before his son, and is beaming. 'Nice broom,' he remarks with a significant look. He glances quickly at Scorpius, then back to Albus. 'I'm glad you're finally giving it a go.'

'Er. Yeah.' _Not my idea_, Albus wants to add, but Scorpius' grip is so tight that it's cutting off the circulation to his forearm so he simply says, 'I, um, sorry I forgot to send an owl. Been busy. Loads of schoolwork, you know.'

'Your brother sent enough owls for the both of you,' Harry remarks, looking amused. 'Your mum finally caved and bought him the broom.'

'Did she,' Scorpius says, making Albus jump. He's still looking at his father; Harry's eyes turn to him again, then back over his shoulder at Draco, who is keeping his distance. Scorpius finally looks up at Harry, who seems unaffected by the sharpness of his gaze. 'Anyway, Mr Potter, we've a game to win, so...'

Harry nods and Scorpius moves to follow the rest of the team onto the pitch, dragging Albus with him. Harry calls 'Good luck!' as they pass, but when Albus looks back both their fathers are already making their way to the stands.

'That was,' Albus huffs, jogging to keep up with Scorpius' stride, 'um. Unexpected.'

Scorpius doesn't answer, releasing Albus to pull his Eclipse out in front of him.

'Captains, shake,' calls the referee. Max attempts to break James' hand in his grip; James, smirking, makes a rude gesture with his free hand. 'Mount your brooms!'

Fourteen figures climb onto their brooms, hovering steadily over the ground despite the formidable wind blowing through the stadium, shaking the stands. Albus can see his friends and family, blurry through the tumult of snow, all of their eyes fixed on him. James, who will be fighting neck-and-neck with Scorpius for the Quaffle; Dominique, who'll be watching the goalposts; Hugo, who will be aiming every Bludger he can get a bat to at Albus' head; and Lily, little Lily, who's going to be racing him for the Snitch. Albus swallows heavily; he wonders if it would be better to take an early Bludger on purpose, just to put himself out of his misery.

The Quaffle soars through the air, until gravity takes hold and drags it back down to earth. There's silence but for the howling winds, as if the entire stadium has taken one giant breath and held it, and then the world around him explodes into chaos.

'Gryffindor grab possession of the Quaffle thanks to some aggressive flying by Potter!' Chad Jordan is commentating, and he's Albus' only clue to what is going on, for the pitch below looks like a snow globe that's been shaken furiously. He can barely discern the house colours of the dark shapes dashing to and fro beneath him. 'A Bludger from Carrow throws him off, he passes to Walker—intercepted by Malfoy! I've never seen anything turn that fast! Malfoy's in and out of there before Walker's had time to turn around, but not for long, Potter is breathing down his neck—Malfoy fakes left, passes to Rosier, going for a goal—SAVED by Weasley, who returns the Quaffle to Potter—'

Albus wrenches his eyes from the game with enormous effort, Scorpius' voice in his head, chastising him for not being on the lookout for the Snitch. Across the field, Lily is cruising at a steady pace, eyes on the sky. How they're supposed to find the Snitch in this mess, Albus has no idea; every time the sun glimpses through the cloud cover, each flake of snow glimmers, filling the sky with a million Snitch-like flashes of gold.

'—Yaxley SCORES for Slytherin, but Gryffindor still lead sixty to thirty! Seems Slytherin finally managed to find a Chaser who can keep up with Malfoy and Rosier, but Weasley's still outmatching them so far! And Walker has the Quaffle, streaking down the left side, Malfoy right on her tail. A Bludger from Weasley gets her clear, she passes to Potter—ouch, that's gotta hurt! Collision between Potter and Rosier, looks like a foul—but no, the ref clears it, and Potter's mid-field before Malfoy catches him up, taking the Quaffle right out from under him! Passes to Yaxley, back to Malfoy, Rosier—Yaxley again—'

Chad is stumbling from one name to the next now, barely able to keep up with their passes. Their Chasers are as good as Gryffindor's, but Dominique is the best Keeper in school and Albus can tell they must be getting desperate; this strategy is effective but involves so much concentration that they're unable to look out for Bludgers and Carrow and Avery have left Albus to guard the Chasers.

Lily passes by, not ceasing in her search even to glance at him. Disgruntled, Albus veers away from her, gliding smoothly to the other side of the pitch, his robes flapping wildly in the wind.

'Slytherin SCORE!' Chad's voice is all but drowned out by the booing coming from three-quarters of the stadium. 'Walker's got the Quaffle! Slytherin'll be pulling their tricks now to catch up—I'm just telling it how it is, Professor!' McGonagall looks as if she's about to flog him.

Albus' eyes are scanning the sky; the sun breaks through briefly, enveloping him in a golden swirl. Below him, Scorpius surges past, the silver in his uniform gleaming in the sudden light, Quaffle under his arm and James tight on his tail. Albus blinks, and the sun is gone, but the gleam remains—breath catching in his throat, he turns the head of his broom to earth, and dives.

. . .

Harry sees it the moment Albus does. He can almost feel the wind whipping at his robes, and see the ground rushing up at him, fingers outstretched—

'Good lord,' Draco says beside him, sounding awestruck. 'It's you all over again.'

It's obvious that they both spent the better part of their school years scanning the skies for that golden ball; it takes the commentator a second longer to realise what's happening. 'POTTER'S SPOTTED THE SNITCH!' The stadium screams, and Harry's eyes are glued to the tiny figure of Albus, speeding almost vertically towards the ground. Lily is only a moment behind him, but with his lead, the Aspect has no chance of catching him. The Snitch, Harry sees, is hovering about five feet off the ground, flitting in small, nervous circles; and there, to the left, a well-aimed dark blur from Hugo is hurtling towards it, on course for Albus' head. Both James and Scorpius are shouting, their words lost in the surrounding roar of the stadium.

Albus sees it coming. Almost reluctantly, he unhooks a leg from the stirrup, places his foot on the tail-end of his broom and kicks down, pulling out of the dive at a sharp forty-five degree angle. The Bludger slams past, swirling the snow on the ground, and the Snitch vanishes in its wake.

There's a great groan from the stands; the commentator resumes his play-by-play: '—an amazing piece of flying from both Seekers! Potter nearly gets the Snitch, saved by a well-aimed Bludger from Weasley! With Gryffindor at one-hundred-and-ninety to forty, Potter's off with the Quaffle again—'

'Close your mouth, Potter,' Draco remarks, shooting him a sideways look. 'I know dignity isn't exactly your forte, but—'

'Shut up,' Harry says, but he's grinning. 'I've seen him fly, but never like _that_—it's like, I mean, I knew he didn't like to really _try_ around James, but he's not even breaking a sweat.' Draco is giving him an odd look. 'What?' Harry demands.

'You never watched any recaps of your own games, I take it,' Draco says, looking away. Out on the pitch, Scorpius has the Quaffle again, and is driving it home for the goal. 'He flies like you.'

Harry, caught off guard, struggles for a retort, but before he can think of anything, another roar from the crowd drowns out his thoughts; it's Lily this time, arcing across the mid-field, her hair blazing like a red-orange flag in the wind as she shoots past. The Gryffindors in the stadium are deafening, on their feet and screaming support.

It's over much quicker from the stands, Harry reckons, than in the field. On a broom, the moment stretches out for what seems like hours, everything going in slow motion. All eyes focused on Lily, almost no one notices the dark green blur above her, spiralling down. Lily has the lead, but she's flying against the wind, and on an Aspect; Albus is flying with it, and also has gravity on his side. He gains on her like a meteor, and he passes down and in front of her before she gets within reach, so quickly that for a moment it seems no one knows exactly what's happened.

'SLYTHERIN HAVE THE SNITCH!' yells the dumbfounded commentator, as if he's never heard such words before. The stadium stills in shocked silence for a split second, before all those clad in green and silver burst into cheers. Harry, like the entire Gryffindor team, is still catching up. He's not sure whether to cheer or not; neither, it seems, is the rest of the crowd. 'SLYTHERIN WIN! AND—BLOODY HELL THEY'VE TIED ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY WITH GRYFFINDOR!'

Harry can see McGongall box Chad upside his ear with her earmuff for swearing. Draco, beside him, is smirking, and claps him jubilantly on the back. 'Well _done_, Potter.'

. . .


	5. Early December 2023

**Part Five**_  
Early December, 2023_

: : :

Harry frowns at the owl in his hands. Draco is scribbling away at some parchment on his desk, oblivious.

It isn't that he is particularly surprised; well, actually, he is, and he'd often wondered what his life would have turned out to be like if he'd been Sorted into Slytherin. What if Ron hadn't sat with him on the train? Would've he and Malfoy been friends? Would he even know Hermione? Would he have managed to defeat Voldemort without their help? Probably not, but then, maybe he would've had help from someone else.

Harry sighs. Thinking like this always ends up giving him a headache. Albus seems to be handling the Slytherin-thing all right, though, despite the crap James gives him—and it's not like they have Voldemort to worry about anymore.

Harry doesn't know much about Scorpius other than that he plays Chaser for Slytherin, and is in the same year as Albus. Draco never talks about him.

'So, um,' Harry begins, and hears Draco pause in his pen-strokes. 'Got plans for the holidays?'

Draco gives him a strange look, then shrugs, turning his eyes back to his work. 'Just the usual, I suppose. Why?'

'Well—' Harry tries, and fails to articulate the question in his mind. Instead, he sends the letter from Albus whizzing over to Draco with a flick of his wand. 'That's why.'

Draco scans the letter, and seems to think very quickly before looking up at Harry again. 'If it's all right with you,' he says, shrugging and turning back to his work.

'You sure?' Harry asks, surprised. It _is_ Christmas, after all. He eyes the empty ring finger on Draco's left hand, curled around the top edge of the parchment he's scribbling on, and frowns. 'I mean, you know, if you want…' Harry grimaces, and just throws the words out there, 'you'd be—welcome, too—'

Draco laughs, then coughs, cutting it short. When he looks at Harry again, he's got that unreadable look that would fool anyone but Harry. 'Hell having some cold weather this season?'

Harry rolls his eyes. 'I was just—'

'Look, Potter,' Draco says, sighing and sitting back. 'You really don't need to bother with ostentatious banalities with me. It's fine. I could use the time off, anyway.' Harry raises an inquiring eyebrow, and Draco smirks. 'Being a single father isn't nearly as gratifying as you'd think.'

Harry nods. Ginny's job takes her away from home enough that he can appreciate this. Albus will be pleased, at least. Then the only real challenge, he muses while taking a quill from his desk to reply to the letter, will be to keep James from killing him.

: : :

The force of which Scorpius' knuckles connect with James' jaw sends pain shooting all the way up his shoulder. He doesn't even get a chance to wince, however, before James' own blow catches him just under his right eye. Scorpius isn't usually much for physical violence, but there's something primordially gratifying about getting the blood of James Potter under his fingernails.

'Oh, for fuck's _sake_,' Albus begins, pushing his way through the throng of students that has gathered to watch the bloodshed. James looks up, and Albus winces as Scorpius gets in a well-aimed punch while his enemy is distracted. Someone runs off to get a teacher.

'Stay out of it,' Scorpius snarls as Albus steps up to intervene. James seems to be thinking along the same lines, as he shoves Albus out of the way on his way to tackle Scorpius to the ground. Albus sighs, the answer from his father still clutched in his fist, and wonders why he even thought this might be a good idea.

'That is _quite_ enough!'

The Headmistress, however ancient, still poses quite a formidable figure that's been perfected from decades of separating testosterone-induced fights in hallways. The Voice has the desired effect as both boys freeze; James, straddling Scorpius, has one hand fisted in his collar and the other pulled back ready to punch; Scorpius has him by the throat, face locked in mid-snarl. 'Really! Mr Potter, I'd have thought last week's detention would have deterred such behaviour! And Mr Malfoy, a Prefect should knowbetter!'

Carefully, as if in slow motion, James releases Scorpius' collar and Scorpius in turn lets go of his neck. Neither of them looks particularly guilty, Albus thinks, as James rolls off Scorpius and onto his feet. He shoulders into Albus as Albus offers a hand to Scorpius, helping him up. James has a bloody nose and is limping slightly; Scorpius is sporting a black eye and a bleeding, swollen bottom lip. McGonagall has her arms folded over her chest and is glaring at them over her spectacles.

'Detention, tonight, the both of you,' she commands. 'And don't even think of going to the Hospital Wing; if you insist on behaving like ruffians, you can plan on dealing with the effects the old-fashioned way.'

'What the hell was that all about?' Albus demands, as soon as he and Scorpius are out of earshot. 'I can't leave you alone for five bloody minutes—'

'What are you, my mum?' Scorpius demands sourly, fingering his lip tenderly. 'Ow.'

'Serves you right,' Albus chastises. Scorpius gives him a look. 'Don't look at me like that. You're both idiots, I swear to Merlin. Give it here,' he takes Scorpius' wand from him, and mutters the spell; the bleeding stops, and the swelling lessens a bit. Scorpius sighs lightly from the relief.

'I can't believe you're related to that tosser,' Scorpius mutters, rubbing under his lip.

Albus sighs heavily. He'd wanted to okay the idea with his dad before asking Scorpius, and is now worried that Scorpius will laugh him scorn. 'So, um, holidays are coming up.'

'Mm,' Scorpius agrees, still poking his lip as they make their way back towards the dungeons. 'It's fine, as usual. Father isn't bothered. Bloody house is so big I could bring the entire dormitory over and he probably wouldn't notice.'

'Actually—' Albus begins, then stops.

Scorpius' gaze flickers over to him. 'Actually?' he prompts.

Albus is fidgeting. Albus hates fidgeting, but he can't seem to help it, and Scorpius always notices and knows something is off. 'Well, I thought, I mean, I've been coming over for three Christmases in a row now, and—'

'Mum wants you home?' Scorpius asks, and shrugs. 'Whatever. Doesn't matter.'

'Well—'

'S'not like it's a big deal, you can come over the summer.'

'But I—'

'Anyway, I think Father wants to go to visit one of our cousins in Germany, and I haven't been there in _years_—'

'Will you shut up?' Albus demands, and Scorpius does, bewildered. 'Yes, mum wants me home, but I asked and they said it was all right if you came with.' He says this all in one breath, and inhales quickly, before adding, 'If you want.'

Scorpius blinks at him. 'You want _me_ to come over for the holidays?'

'Yes?' Albus ventures, and waits for it.

'Me. At your house.' Scorpius pauses, then grimaces. 'With your… family.'

Albus knows it is a lost cause, but tries to look innocently hopeful anyway.

Scorpius doesn't laugh. Albus is surprised to see him suddenly frowning, brow furrowed in thought. Then he says, 'I don't think it's a good idea.'

'Why not?' Albus demands. 'And don't say Jamie.'

Scorpius, who has his mouth open already, closes it.

'If I can't use him as an excuse, neither can you,' Albus adds. 'Anyway, we don't live in a bloody mansion but it's not a small house, you probably won't even see him outside meals. Besides,' he adds quickly, before Scorpius can change the subject, 'Teddy's coming over this year, and you know he always gets the best presents.'

Scorpius sighs. Albus can practically see him running over various excuses in his head, dismissing them one at a time. 'I'll send an owl to Father,' he concedes, after a moment.

'Dad says he already asked,' Albus says, grinning. 'They're collaborating at work, or something, I dunno. But your dad said its fine. So you'll come? Seriously?'

Scorpius looks down at him, and admits defeat. No one in their right mind could turn down the hopeful face Albus was attacking him with.

'Sure,' he says, knowing he will regret it later, 'what's the worst that could happen?'

: : :

'You want to grab a drink?'

Draco looks up from his desk at Harry, who's standing in the doorway. He's holding his cloak over his arm, trying and failing to not look awkward. 'Beg your pardon?'

'Drinks. You know, at a pub?'

'As opposed to where else?'

Harry stops looking awkward, and begins looking angry. 'Look, you don't have to be such a prat about everything,' he says.

Before Draco can reply to this, Theodore appears at his shoulder, turquoise hair askew and looking excited. Now it was obvious why Harry had bothered making an effort at all. Teddy looks from Harry to Draco and says, 'You two ready? Excellent.'

As soon as he is out of earshot, Harry sighs. 'Look, it's just a drink. We all go. Well, most of us in the department, right before the holidays. And Teddy's right, you should come, since you're part of the team now.'

Draco looks wistfully at the paperwork at his desk, and quickly envisions a night out on the town with a bunch of drunk Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. 'I think I'll pass,' he decides.

'Oh come on, Malfoy,' Harry says, shrugging on his cloak. 'It'll be fun. Once we've had a few,' he adds, and Draco realises that the uncomfortable feeling here is mutual.

Willing to compromise, mostly for Teddy's sake, Draco stands up and reaches for his cloak. 'Sure,' he says, flashing Harry a smirk. 'What's the worst that could happen?'

: : :

Albus is suddenly very aware of Hogwarts' female population.

It isn't that he's never noticed girls. What with Jocelyn Rosier flouncing in and out of the boys' dormitory in nothing but her nightdress every evening, it was sort of hard to ignore. And James Potter as an older brother giving him all sorts of brotherly advice in the way of old _Witches Gone Wild_ magazines, Albus has seen much more than he thinks he ever will need to. But he never saw what the big _deal_ was.

But no, this is very different indeed. It now appeared that the girls were noticing _him_.

'Welcome to being a Quidditch player,' Scorpius tells him, smirking as Albus skitters to his other side to use him as a shield against an oncoming pack, giggling suggestively and shooting him covert looks.

'This is ridiculous,' Albus hisses at him, watching them bubble past with apprehension. 'And what's Quidditch got to do with it?'

Scorpius glances at him sideways, still smirking. 'It's not so much Quidditch itself, but being brilliant at it, you pillock.'

'You're brilliant at it,' Albus points out. 'And so's Flint. He's a bloody amazing Keeper.' And Albus knows this is true, because the only time Slytherin ever has to worry about goal keeping is against Gryffindor, and it isn't Flint's fault that James is just better at scoring than he is at defending. 'And I don't see him being dogged every time you enter a corridor.'

'Flint also looks like he's got troll blood in his ancestry,' Scorpius remarks, his smirk still growing with every word.

Albus scowls. 'I still don't - '

'You can't possibly be this dense,' Scorpius says, mostly to himself. He stops abruptly and Albus, walking in his shadow, knocks into him. He looks down at Albus, no longer grinning. 'Have you ever even _looked_ in a mirror, Potter?'

: : :

The pub they go to is a far cry from the Leaky Cauldron, but at least it's run by wizards.

The bar itself is square, and on the west side there is a slight drop in the floor, with some stairs leading down to a small karaoke stage. The east side is littered with high circle tables and stools, crowded with people trying to play footsies and cop a feel and hoping no one will notice. Teddy steers the group towards the stage, claiming a large table by the window with a decent view and a large booth seat.

There isn't as many people as Draco thinks there would be. Aside from the three of them, there's a lot of the younger Aurors from generations at Hogwarts that were years behind him; Romilda Vane, looking rather good in a black party dress, and her boyfriend, some wizard Draco's never seen before; Terry Boot, looking odd in Muggle clothes, and his partner, Kevin Entwhistle, sitting so close to him that he's practically in his lap (Draco is beginning to wonder about those two); and finally, Dean Thomas and Owen Cadwell, who are both avoiding looking at him.

Draco manages to sit himself between Harry and Teddy, who grins manically at him, and beckons over a barmaid to order them all double shots of Firewhisky to get started.

By the time the second round has gone down, Draco is feeling considerably better about this excursion. Teddy is talking enough for the both of them, and the rest seem happy to let Draco observe them in silence, half-listening to the talking and half-listening to the drunken idiot on stage trying to sing some Muggle song about rock lobsters, whatever the hell those are.

Weasley and Granger show up when the barmaid has just brought Draco his third shot. He downs it quickly, the fire at the back of his throat a welcome distraction to the glare Ron gives him.

'I won't even ask,' he says, sitting down on the other side of Harry. Now Draco is trapped, but at least he can't see Weasley.

The bench full, Granger sits down in a chair across from him. 'Hello, Malfoy.'

Draco squints at her. 'I haven't had quite enough to be pleasant to you, yet,' he replies. Teddy is too busy talking and has neglected his fourth drink; Draco gratefully nicks it, and swallows it. 'Don't push your luck.'

She smiles at him, which isn't exactly what he is counting on, and suddenly feels like he's walked into a trap. 'Don't strain yourself.'

She looks very pretty, he's annoyed to admit, still dressed in her Ministry Unspeakable robes. The first few buttons of her shirt are undone, leaving a promise of cleavage in their wake. Draco also thinks that if he's started to ogle Muggleborn breasts, it may be time to start dating again.

She orders a drink and then looks at him and asks, 'How's your work for the department going?'

Draco shrugs. 'Too early to tell.'

'I hear you've got a list of students interested,' she continues.

Draco shrugs again.

He knows she's clever enough to tell he'd rather not be talking about, or just not talking to her in general. She continues anyway. 'The Ministry doesn't have the facilities to accept and train so many recruits at once, but since you need to boost your numbers quickly, I have an idea.'

'Having ideas for the department,' he interjects smoothly, 'is actually my job description, last I checked.'

'Care to share, then?' she shoots back, sipping her newly-delivered drink and raising her eyebrows in polite interest.

Draco sighs, looks to Harry for help, but Harry is involved in some Quidditch debate with Ron and not paying either of them attention. Draco sighs again and leans back in the booth, turning back to her. 'I'm listening,' he says.

She smiles at him. 'A camp.' He blinks, and she continues. 'A summer-term training program. That way, even the students still underage could participate. Two months over the summer with basic training programs, offering them a head-start on the official training once they're out of school and the opportunity to weed out the students who are there for the wrong reasons.'

Draco stares at her. It's a good idea. Actually, it's a fabulous idea. With one major flaw. 'But, as you judiciously pointed out a moment ago, the Ministry doesn't have the facilities—or the budget, mind you—to host a program for so many recruits. So we're still at the same problem; a problem easily solved by weeding out those underage, and going from there.'

'Well, I had an idea about that, too,' she says, folding her hands on the table, and waits.

Draco gives her a look. 'All right, Granger, I'll bite. What do you propose?'

: : :

Albus is looking at himself in a mirror.

This is ridiculous, he tells himself, and that Scorpius obviously is demented.

He uses a mirror often enough to recognize his reflection, at least—every morning to brush his teeth, or trying to flatten his hair after James has ruffled it and made it untidier than usual, and even more often now due to the new phenomenon of shaving. He knows from an unlimited amount of photographs in three-decade-old Daily Prophets kept in the attic that he looks extraordinarily like his father did at sixteen, sans the infamous lightning-bolt scar; same nose, unexceptional and straight, strong cheekbones that only became prominent over the last summer, the untidy black hair that refuses to lie flat, and, unique among his siblings, bright green eyes – the eyes of his father's mother, a woman he only knows from old photographs that his father guards jealously in his study.

There is a light dusting of freckles, only visible under close inspection, over his nose and under his eyes. These, in addition to a mouth that tends to dimple when he smiles, are the only subtle resemblance to his mother he displays.

He knows he isn't ugly. Unusual-looking, perhaps, but not unfortunate – nor exceptional, by any means. Certainly nothing to the elegant-featured, would-be blonde he shares a dormitory with, much less the guitar-slinging, infamous breaker of hearts, Quidditch All-Star of an older brother. Despite his father's unpopular reputation, Scorpius frequently sends girls swooning with a casual glance in their general direction, and James – well, James uses every ounce of charm, freckles and physique Quidditch has given him to his advantages, which often causes the breakout of an alarming fracas of females vying for his attention, and at least several girls in the infirmary.

Albus scowls at his reflection. Girls are weird.

He is considering jinxing his way through the Great Hall to dinner. Having been intercepted three times en route to the Slytherin table, he thinks from now on he may have to use his Invisibility Cloak to go anywhere ever again. He finally manages to disentangle himself from the advance of one Mathilda Coote and her entourage and collapses next to Scorpius in relief.

Across the hall from him, James blows him a kiss and winks lecherously. Albus wonders if he jinxes him from under the table if he can pass it off as an accident.

Scorpius gives him a reassuring pat on the back. 'Could be worse,' he reassures, 'Coote's not half-bad, for a Hufflepuff.'

Albus thinks he shouldn't have even bothered coming to dinner, because he is no longer hungry. His stomach squirms uncomfortably as Scorpius removes his hand to load food onto his plate. 'How do you stand this?' Albus asks, grimacing. 'I can't even go to the loo without being followed.'

Scorpius swallows, the sharp angle of his throat flexing briefly before answering. 'Tell them you're a poof?' he suggests with a wicked grin. Albus feels himself grow hot, but Scorpius is no longer paying attention; his eyes flicker upward, and suddenly he smiles. 'Your best bet is to find one you can stand, and latch on. She'll run all the defense you need.'

Albus looks up, and sees Jocelyn coming down the table, smiling that smile she reserves only for Scorpius. As she takes a seat on Scorpius' other side, he slips a casual arm around her waist and winks meaningfully at Albus.

Sulking, Albus turns his attention back to his empty plate. Giving up, he mutters, 'Bugger this,' grabs his book bag, and leaves the table before Scorpius can stop him.

: : :


	6. Yuletide Cheer, Winter Holidays, 2023

**Part Six**  
Yuletide Cheer_  
Winter Holidays, 2023_

: : :

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Ginny asks him for the fifteenth time.

'No,' Harry answers truthfully. 'But what was I supposed to tell him?'

Ginny bites her lip, watching the arriving train, steaming as it pulls into the station. 'I just wish you would have discussed it with me first.'

Harry sighs. Twenty years have done nothing to dissolve the hatred Lucius poisoned her with; even a third-generation Malfoy is still a Malfoy, she tells him. They're all the same. But Albus asks for so little, it would've been cruel to deny him this. Harry knows Ginny would have caved, eventually, so he doesn't see what the big deal is, but then again, he never does.

James is first off the train—he comes barreling out of like a renegade Bludger, a leading arm around Hugo and Dominique, singing, laughing, dragging their trunks and swaying like a couple of drunken sots. Ginny smiles when she sees them. Harry tries not to roll his eyes.

'_On the third day of Christmas—_' James, singing in a deep baritone, drowns out the voices of the others, _'—my true love owled to me… three Flobberworms, two Grindylows, and a phoenix in a pear tree!_'

Harry wonders if sometimes James forgets he has a little brother at all. His shadow moves out from behind him as he approaches. Albus, looking nervous, is not singing. He shoots a pleading look at his father, then at James.

'Hullo, mum,' James says, just before Ginny engulfs him in a hug. He's almost a full head taller than her already, and makes a pained face at his father overtop of her hair. 'Thanks for the broom.'

Ginny releases him with a swift kiss and goes for Albus next, who hugs her hurriedly, eyes darting around the platform anxiously. Lily is still on the train, somewhere, and James is laughing with Dominique while they wait for Fleur to come pick him up, and Hugo is already run off down the platform towards Ron.

A dark figure disembarks a distant carriage and saunters slowly towards them. Harry wouldn't even have noticed if he hadn't been following Albus' eyes.

Harry waits until Dominique has given James a goodbye punch in the shoulder and then pulls his eldest son aside. James blinks, surprised. Always on the defensive, he immediately puts on an innocent face and demands, 'What'd I do?'

'Nothing, yet,' Harry says.

'Then what—'

'James,' Harry interrupts, looking him in the eye, 'promise me you'll at least _try_ to behave.'

James blinks again, bewildered. 'What—'

'Hey, _snake,_' says a smooth voice, cutting through the crisp air like a hot knife.

James freezes mid-demand, wheeling on the spot. Scorpius Malfoy, looking far too pleased with himself, sidles up to Albus and ruffles his hair. His own hair, dyed black, makes his skin look like alabaster—and despite the dark hair, the resemblance to his father is so striking that Ginny visibly stiffens. Oblivious, Albus glances up at Scorpius from under his hair, looking a mixture of relieved and besotted.

Harry can feel James bristle beside him, and grabs a hold of the elbow of his wand arm before he can move it. James turns his head to glare at him, looking betrayed. 'You _can't_ be serious,' he hisses.

'Behave,' Harry reminds him in an undertone.

James gives his father a look that suggests he needs to check-in at St Mungo's. 'You can't be serious,' he repeats, as if it might penetrate the aura of idiocy that has invaded his father's brain.

Harry gives him the sternest look he can manage. 'I mean it, James,' he says. 'Keep your wand in your pocket. And—' he continues, as James makes a fist, 'your appendages _to yourself_.'

Scorpius, who has been surveying this all with a look of wicked satisfaction, smiles angelically at them. 'Mr Potter,' he offers by way of greeting. He even _talks_ like Malfoy, Harry thinks, and not the Malfoy that's currently sharing his office. No, he talks like the Malfoy that Harry used to want to pummel in-between classes, smirking that same smirk that caused more detentions for Harry than he cares to remember. Harry momentarily feels very sorry for James, who looks like the entire world has gone mad and he's the only sane one left.

'Oh, look, there's Lily,' Ginny says, looking relieved for a distraction. She leaves to go help Lily with her trunk, leaving the boys and Harry alone.

Albus clears his throat. 'So—er—'

'Un-_fucking_-believable,' James snarls. 'What?' he demands, at Harry's disapproving look. 'I want to go with Dom,' he decides.

'You're not going anywhere,' Ginny tells him, returning with Lily. 'It's been, what, two years since we had a Christmas together—'

'Three,' Lily corrects her absently.

'Point is, none of you are going anywhere,' she finishes. She gives Scorpius a look which he returns, unperturbed, eyebrows raised. She is using her No-Nonsense voice, something she inherited for her mother, and while the young Malfoy seems immune, it has a visible effect on her sons. 'And don't think I don't mean it when I say if I see one wand raised or a single black eye that the only thing you'll be getting for Christmas is cauldron full of coal.' She glances from Scorpius to James, and then back to Albus. 'Understood?'

''Course, Mrs Potter,' Scorpius replies, angelically polite through blindingly white teeth. He turns his grin to James, who twitches in Harry's grip. 'What d'you say, Jamie?' he drawls, deliberately drawing out the nickname. Harry can practically hear James grinding his teeth. 'Truce?'

Harry is fairly sure that if he hadn't been holding onto James, all that would be left of the Malfoy scion is a large crater. Ginny, though not fooled by Scorpius, gives James a pointed look. 'James,' she says.

James, who has always relied on his mum for sanity, looks worriedly from her, to Harry, and back again, as if any moment now one of them is going to let him in on the joke. Only Albus really is looking apprehensive and that _is_ Scorpius' hand on his shoulder and Harry still has James securely by the elbow, preventing James from knocking sense into any of them. Even Lily is watching the proceedings with a distant sort of amusement, as if James has done something to deserve such a nasty underhanded blow as this.

'Yes, _mum_,' James says through grit teeth. Harry relaxes, just enough to let James go, tentatively at first; when James resists from knocking Scorpius' teeth back into his head, Harry deems it safe to step back, for the time being. James isn't looking at Scorpius, however. He's staring at Albus like he's never seen him before, how could his brother possibly betray him like this, and one way or another he will find a way to _get even,_ even if it means he'll be mowing the lawn until he's middle-aged.

'Good,' Ginny says, not sounding nearly as relieved as she attempts to look. 'Well, all right then. Lily, if you want to get the owls; boys, your trunks, and Harry—'

Harry picks up Lily's trunk and puts an arm around Ginny's shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. 'It'll be fine,' he says in an undertone. She gives him a look, unconvinced. 'Really,' he says, smiling. 'If Al likes him, how bad can he be?'

'_You_ liked _Ron_,' Ginny points out, sagging in his grip. 'And he could be pretty vile when he wanted to be.'

: : :

Nestled comfortably on the outskirts of Godric's Gollow, the Potter's is bigger than Scorpius is expecting. Of course, it's nothing next to the Manor, but is large enough to provide each child with their own room and still have leftovers for an office that Harry disappears into the moment they're over the threshold. It's almost the epitome of a happy family, lack of white picket-fence notwithstanding, with a large living room full of oversized furniture and a backyard that could comfortably house a dragon.

'C'mon,' Albus says, eyes bright under his hair. He's got Scorpius by the elbow and is dragging him hastily upstairs, out of reach of James. 'My room's at the end.'

Albus' room is, unfortunately, right next to James', but there's a lock on the inside of the door and Scorpius feels better about sleeping here already. It was adequately untidy in the way that marks an adolescent boy's quarters, with miscellaneous piles of clothes and old schoolbooks around the floor. It's unfamiliar; Scorpius can never drop anything on his own floor at home without an instantaneous _snap_ of a house-elf appearing to tidy it up.

The room is actually quite small overall, but this is okay, because Albus is quite small and doesn't have much in the way of anything, except books. The wall on the far side seems to be made out of them entirely. Scorpius wonders, not for the first time, if Albus should've been a Ravenclaw. A small desk occupies the other corner.

There's also a fantastic poster of a Hungarian Horntail over the bed, wings spread, lips pulled back and snarling at them. In the corner of the moving poster, someone has written in gold script, '_You're allowed a __wand_.'

Albus sees him looking, and shrugs. 'Dad gave it to me. You can leave your stuff here.'

Albus motions to the side of the bed he is sitting on with his foot, and Scorpius drops his trunk. The bed is the largest piece of furniture in the room, easily big enough for two of Albus. This is good, because Scorpius has no intention of sleeping on the floor.

'Teddy's supposed to be here for dinner,' Albus says conversationally.

He looks nervous, poised on the edge of his bed, trying not to look as if he's seeking approval. Scorpius surveys the room again, his eyes coming to rest on a small, thin rectangle resting on the desk. He goes over and lifts the cover up, gently. There's a small _whoosh_ as the laptop boots up, a neon blue welcome screen appearing and demanding a password. Scorpius raises an eyebrow at Albus.

'To keep James off,' Albus explains. 'You wouldn't believe what he changed the background to last time I left it unlocked.'

Albus is one of the few people, aside from his father, that are aware Scorpius Malfoy is anything but illiterate in a wide-range of Muggle electronics. Albus likes to refer to it as his secret fetish, something he started doing while taking Muggle Studies to annoy his father, but accidentally got addicted to along the way. The Internet did that sort of thing to a person.

Scorpius poises his fingers over the keyboard, thinks for a moment, then types quickly (_a-l-o-h-a-m-o-r-a_) and hits 'enter'. Password accepted, the welcome screen turns into the desktop. He rolls his eyes, snapping it closed again, and looks at Albus. 'It's always the simple answer with you.'

Albus smirks deviously. 'If you say so.'

Before Scorpius can retort, something slams into the window beside the bed with a loud _thunk._ Albus rolls toward the window, opening the curtain, revealing the remnants of a snowball sliding off the glass. Scorpius joins him at the window as he opens it, knee-walking across the duvet. Albus slams the window shut just in time to avoid another snowball from hitting Scorpius in the face.

'Come on, snakes!' James, muffled by the glass, is taunting them from the yard. 'Let's see what you've got!'

Albus glances up at Scorpius. He's smirking. 'It's probably a trap,' he reasons, in a tone that suggests this gives them the upper hand.

Scorpius smirks back, and then opens the window a crack. 'I'd say we have the tactical advantage from here, Potter!'

'No magic!' James shouts back, grinning dangerously. 'I prefer to kick your arse the old-fashioned way!'

Scorpius looks at Albus, who shrugs. 'All's fair in war,' he says, still grinning.

Another snowball hits the glass. 'Don't make me come up there and get you!'

: : :

'_Faaaah-llow me in mer-ry mea-sure, fa la la la la, la la, la, la!'_

Few things in the universe are worse than a house-elf trying to hold a tune. Winky, who is invited over every Christmas, is dressed in a Santa's Helper outfit (complete with seven extra hats, all various shades of red and green) and singing merrily as she goes about adjusting ornaments on the over-laden tree by the hearth. When she had learned of Dobby's heroic death, she had snapped out of her depressive state and embraced the same, if rather eccentric, idea of freedom Dobby used to have.

Harry is half-watching her , half-reading an owl from Kingsley over a cuppa on the couch. Ginny's somewhere in the kitchen, and he can smell the food cooking.

'_Hail the new, ye lads and lass-es, fa la la—_'

Winky is cut short by a loud _whoosh_ coming from the fireplace, which dumps a lanky, albeit rather handsome, figure on the living room floor. He's wearing a bright red Santa cap, bright turquoise hair peeking out from underneath. Harry notices that the sack of presents is considerably larger than the one he brought last year.

'Hello, Master Theodore!' Winky yips, still humming Christmas carols under her breath.

''Sup, Harry,' Teddy says, grinning, still sprawled ungraciously on the floor. 'Heya, Winks.'

Harry has stopped complaining about Teddy's tendency to speak entirely in American Muggle slang. That year overseas was a bad idea. 'Hi, Teddy.'

'Where're the kids?'

'Outside, last I checked,' Harry says, nonplussed, eyes still fixed on the parchment. 'Probably trying to kill each other.'

Teddy raises turquoise eyebrows, and grins again. 'Getting into the spirit of things,' he agrees, standing and tossing the sack underneath the tree. Several brightly-wrapped gifts tumble out of the open end. 'I think I'll go join them.'

'Try not to break anything,' Harry calls to Teddy's retreating figure. 'Gin'll have a fit if anything catches fire this year.'

''Tis the season!' Teddy calls back, the tip of his hat swinging gaily as he slams the front door closed.

Kids, Harry thinks. He is pretty sure he wasn't _that_ obnoxious when he was their age.

: : :

'Admit it,' Albus says. His nose is almost touching Scorpius' and, along with his cheeks, is bright red. They are ducking behind a crudely-built fort of snow, and Albus' breath is fogging up his glasses something terrible. 'This is _fun_.'

'It's only _fun_ if we _win_,' Scorpius amends, but he's grinning as he peeks quickly over the top, hurling a missile of ice and snow across the yard. A gratifying _thud_ and curse makes the grin widen as he ducks back down. '_Right_ in the kisser.'

For a moment, Albus thinks it's started hailing. 'Hey!' he shouts over the fort, covering his head with his hands as hundreds of tiny snowballs assault them from above. 'You said no magic!'

'Sorry, can't hear you over the sound of you _losing_!' James shouts back. Somewhere beside him, Lily is cackling.

Scorpius pulls out his wand and mumbles something, and a moment later there's an ear-piercing shriek followed by another colourful piece of language from James. Albus and Scorpius both peek quickly over the edge of their protective line of packed-snow, noses rubbing against the cold edge.

'What'd you do?' Albus asks.

Scorpius grins. 'If you're going to cheat, you ought at least be _creative._'

'What's all this?' says a voice, and Albus sits up, and is immediately hit in the face with a well-aimed snowball from Lily. Teddy starts to laugh, but is cut short as James' knocks off his hat with another. 'Oi!' Teddy says, ducking to retrieve his hat. 'Don't start what you can't finish!'

Twenty furious minutes later everyone is covered in snow and rather red in the face; the colour is as bright as Teddy's hair, which he's morphed red and green with a matching beard to suit the mood. They tumble into the house, James leading with Scorpius and Albus bringing up the rear. The kitchen smells of something wonderful and James follows his nose through the house to the source, Teddy trailing behind. Albus collapses on the couch beside his father, and Scorpius hovers a moment, before taking a seat on the floor between his knees. Lily curls up on the other side of her father, shaking the quickly melting snow out of her hair.

'Everyone get out unscathed?' Harry asks, without looking up.

'No casualties,' Albus answers, leaning over to pick snow out of Scorpius' hair.

'Jamie almost hit Malfoy,' Lily remarks lightly. 'But Al tripped him up, so he hit him instead.'

Harry looks up briefly at Albus, who smirks. 'Don't worry, I hit him back.'

'Good,' Harry says, turning back to his parchment. 'You lot should probably wash up for dinner.'

Dinner passes peacefully. James is being his loud, obnoxious self, Lily is begging her mother to let her do something horrifying to her hair, and Teddy is entertaining the rest of them with stories from his year abroad in America. Scorpius hasn't said a word, but gives Albus an encouraging smile whenever inquiring green eyes find his.

'So this bird,' Teddy is telling the boys, who're all trying hard not to choke on their respective hot chocolates, 'she looks like she walked off the cover of _Which Broomstick_, I swear her legs went all the way up to Canada—'

'Teddy,' Ginny says reproachfully over the conversation, lips pursing.

'Well, it's true…'

'Let the man tell his story, mum,' James says.

Using the distraction, Scorpius elbows Albus, hissing, 'You done?'

Albus looks over, then at his plate. He shrugs. 'Guess so.'

Scorpius jerks his head, indicating Albus should follow him.

'So anyway, I say to the bird—' Teddy begins again, but James isn't listening. He's watching his brother, now oblivious to the rest of them, follow Scorpius out of the room.

When Terry is finished his story James excuses himself in lieu of the bathroom. He takes the long way around, through the hall that passes the den. He stops by the entryway and peeks around. Albus and Scorpius are on the couch; Albus is reading something from a Muggle paperback, his voice too low for James to make out. Scorpius is lying on his back, legs dangling over the armrest, head propped against Albus' thigh, listening. Occasionally, he smiles.

James can feel the smooth shaft of his wand handle, protruding from his trouser pocket, the Hazel wood dark and tempting under his fingers. He tightens his grip, and then pauses—Albus has stopped talking, and James looks up to see him holding the book closed in his lap, looking down on Scorpius with some dismay; with his head still propped against Albus' lap, Scorpis has fallen asleep. Albus is also wearing an expression James does not get to see often—that unreadable, cognitive look Albus gets when James would gladly kill to know what he was thinking about.

Grinding his teeth, James pockets his wand and returns to the kitchen. Sometimes he feels like he doesn't know his brother at all.

: : :

It's the morning of Christmas Eve, and Albus rolls over and hits something. Thankfully, the something is mostly soft and warm, but very solid nonetheless. He blinks in the blurry light of early-morning and squints. This close, he can see Scorpius clearly; he's still asleep despite the collision, stretched out beside him like a large, comatose cat.

Albus yawns and, just before laying back down, his body catches up with his brain and realises that an immediate trip to the loo is in order.

Albus slides off the end of the bed carefully, trying not to wake Scorpius—who is apparently beyond all hope of consciousness regardless, and gives a large snore as the bedsprings creak. Albus jams on his trainers, because the bare tiles of early-winter-mornings are not easy on the feet, and shuffles, still yawning, out of the room.

James' door is ajar and, peeking, Albus sees a lump of turquoise hair asleep on a cot next to the bed. The bed itself, however, is empty. Albus thinks about this as he makes his way to the bathroom. Inside, it's freezing; someone has left the window cracked, and overnight the place has turned into a freezer. After relieving himself, Albus goes to shut it.

There's a distinct smell lacing the icy morning air.

It's coming from the direction of the broomshed, which is just outside the window and back a few yards. Albus frowns and, leaving the window as it is, pads quietly back to his room to grab his cloak.

Outside, the air is the kind of cold that burns. His breath comes out as a thick, humid mist. Albus thinks that, on reflection, his cloak over his pajamas isn't really suitable cover for this time of year. Melted snow trickles into his soles as he crunches as quietly as he can from the back door from the kitchen across the backyard.

James is lighting his second cigarette when Albus comes around the broomshed.

He inhales anyway. There's no point in hiding it from Albus, because while Albus is annoying in a lot of ways he's anything but a tattle. Albus wrinkles his noise as James blows a long line of smoke out of his nose.

'I thought you quit that,' Albus says.

James doesn't answer. It's a stupid question, and Albus knows it. James is angry and has nothing to take it out on. Or rather, he does have something to take it out on, but it would end up with Scorpius in St Mungo's and James getting grounded until he is forty. This, at least, takes the edge off.

'Why aren't you asleep?' James asks. 'Malfoy snore too loud?'

'Not as loud as you do,' Albus says, truthfully. He can frequently hear James through the wall of his bedroom. 'Why aren't _you_ asleep?'

''was effer flit 'tis froat wil he flept, or com' an' 'ave a fmoke,' James says, the fag bobbing up and down between his lips as he speaks. He takes it out, exhaling heavily. 'You could have _told_ me, you know.'

'Yeah, that would have gone brilliantly,' Albus says, giving him a look. It's the same look Dad gets when he's onto you; that piercing green gaze that could stare down a Dementor. 'He's really not—'

'Don't even say it!' James snaps, coughing on the smoke exploding out of his lungs. 'I'm fucking tired of all—he's really not what? That _bad?_ Have you ever even listened to Dad? To mum? To Uncle Ron, for fuck's sakes?'

Albus looks slightly taken aback, but stands his ground. 'Wrong generation, Jamie.'

'There's a good reason for the saying "Like father, like son", smartarse. Look, I know you're going to argue, but there's _no point_, because he's still a fucking stuck-up, spoilt, nasty sonofasnake! He's a fucking _Malfoy_, for Merlin's sake, that should say enough! Did you ever stop and think _why_, why, of all Slytherins, he's so fucking interested in _you?_ His father nearly got Dad killed—and Mum, and her brother, and his wife—hell, half the fucking family _did_ die because of those bastards! Just because the Dark Lord is dead doesn't mean they've all turned their backs on his ways, bloody Pureblood nutters, they're _all the fucking same_!'

Albus waits for James to catch his breath. When he does, James puffs urgently on the remainder of his cigarette.

'If he was trying to kill me,' Albus says calmly, confiscating the third cigarette James tries to light, 'I think I would have noticed by now.'

'I never said—' James begins, and then frowns. 'He's been on my case since he stepped foot in the castle. The moment you got Sorted into his House—'

'_Our_ House,' Albus corrects.

'—he _knew_ he had an edge. Don't you fucking get it? He's just _using_ _you_ to get to _me!'_

Albus regards him quietly for a moment. James thinks that perhaps, finally, he's gotten through.

Then Albus starts laughing. James looks like he's going to explode, and most people would have backed up at this point. Albus continues to hold his ground and his gaze, waiting for it. The weight of his stare seems to deflate James. He signs, grabs back the cigarette, and lights it before Albus can snatch it away again.

Albus is surprised. He expected more yelling, more outrageous, if not completely unfounded, accusations. James instead is simply looking resigned, as if he knows nothing he says will change his brother's mind, and a new, slightly ridiculous thought occurs to him.

'Oh, hell,' Albus says. 'You're _jealous_.'

'What?' James demands, dropping the cigarette. He looks at Albus as if he's gone mad.

'You _are_,' Albus says, this time with confidence. 'Oh my God, is that what this is all about? Are you kidding me? Could you possibly be this stupid?'

'I don't—what—I'm _not!_' James yelps, glaring at him. 'What the hell are you on about? Did _he_—' James stops, and his eyes widen. 'Do you believe _everything_ he says? Over your own fucking brother? See, I told you, he's only using you to—'

'No!' Albus shouts, and James shuts up quickly. 'No, _you_ see! Listen to yourself! This has nothing to do with Malfoy, this has to do with you and me! You don't even know, do you,' Albus says, lowering his tone at the look on James' face. 'You really _don't _realise at all, do you?'

'You're mental,' James informs him. 'Completely barking. It's those dungeons, they're full of mold, and you've been breathing it in for years now, and you've gone mad like the rest of them—'

'Jamie,' Albus interrupts, and James rolls his eyes, looking away. Albus steps into his vision; there are those _eyes_ again. 'He's my House-mate. _And_ my best mate. But you are my _brother_.' As an afterthought, Albus adds, 'And sometimes you can be _such an idiot_.'

'Takes one to know one,' James responds automatically. Albus is smiling at him, and he's not sure why. 'I'm _not_ jealous,' James explains, glaring. 'I just want to kick his face in.'

'_Such_ an idiot,' Albus repeats. His teeth are starting to chatter and James, taking pity, takes off his cloak and throws it over him as they head back towards the house. Albus leans into him, grateful. 'I'm sorry about the match,' he continues, by way of truce. 'I'll try to suck when we're up against Hufflepuff next month.'

'And you call me an idiot,' James says, ruffling his hair. 'You can't lose to Hufflepuffs. You'd never live through the shame.'

'You could lose the Cup,' Albus points out.

'Oh yeah?' James grins wickedly down at him. 'We'll see.'

: : :

Scorpius wakes up cold.

He blinks at the morning sunlight, and sees why; Albus is missing. Yawning widely, he stretches out like a cat, and then melts unceremoniously back into the covers. He hears the distant noise of a toilet flushing, and the creak of floorboards outside the door... and past the door, down the stairs. Frowning inside the duvet, Scorpius quickly summons the will to stand, and does so. It's cold in the room, and the hardwood floor stings and sticks to his bare feet.

Not even bothering to dress, he wanders downstairs, bare feet silent on the carpet-covered stairs. The front door is swinging closed as he descends into the living room; Scorpius peeks behind the curtains out the window, and sees Albus disappear around the back of the house.

Sighing, Scorpius wanders into the kitchen. He is not wandering into the cold and snow, especially not in bare feet, until he's had his morning coffee. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he almost collides with Harry, who is prodding the kettle on the stove rather viscously with his wand.

'Er,' Scorpius says.

Harry looks at him briefly before continuing his assault of the kettle. 'Good morning.'

Scorpius looks at him; he is still wearing the same jeans and jumper from the night before, he recognises, and there are deep circles under his eyes, half-hidden behind his glasses. Scorpius notices because Albus looks the exact same way when he's gone a night without sleep. Looking past Harry to the door to the in-home office, he spies several candles that look as if they've been burnt down to the wick.

'Morning,' he says eventually. 'Is that coffee?'

Harry nods and pours some into a mug, and hands it to Scorpius. 'Sugar's on the table.'

Scorpius nods, and goes to investigate the possibility of cream also being on the table. He forgets about it entirely when Harry suddenly leaves his empty mug on the bench, goes into the office adjoining the kitchen, and reappears a moment later with a thick package in his hands.

'I was going to Owl this to you,' he says to Scorpius, 'but since you're here…'

Harry hands him an envelope the size of a twelve-inch parchment and about half an inch thick. Scorpius takes the package carefully, as if it might explode. He opens it slowly as Harry turns around and finishes making his coffee. Sheet after sheet of crisp, white parchment emerge, all each bearing the heading AUROR HEADQUARTERS and the Ministry's official coat-of-arms.

'So, why do you want to be an Auror?'

Scorpius looks up to see Harry facing him again, back against the counter. Scorpius suspects this will be awkward for the both of them, but Harry's gaze watches him steady nonetheless. It is easy to see where Albus got that.

'Is this my official interview?' he asks, smirking.

Harry looks like he wants to smirk in return, but doesn't. 'Something like that.'

Scorpius inhales deeply. 'Well. I don't.'

Harry raises his eyebrows.

'The training... looks good on a CV,' Scorpius explains.

'It does,' Harry agrees, 'if you're aiming for Unspeakable.'

Scorpius just looks at him.

Harry sighs, and surprisingly, looks disappointed. 'I need agents,' Harry says finally. 'If you decide to complete training and move on, I can't prevent that. But at least promise me that you will, at the very least, seriously consider staying with the department. The job offers a lot more than you might think.'

'You're talking to me like I've already been accepted into the program.'

'You are,' Harry says, and adds quickly. 'If you want.'

Scorpius blinks at him.

'You got nine O.W.L.S., seven of them "Outstanding",' Harry explains, 'and all of those in the required prerequisite subjects for Auror training. Two "Exceeds Expectations" in Herbology and…' Harry pauses, 'Muggle Studies, of all things.'

'I only took that to annoy Father,' Scorpius points out.

Harry looks as if he's hiding another smile. 'Nevertheless, you're the best applicant I have. Which, as I'm sure you know, annoys your father to no end.'

Scorpius tilts his head, debating. 'What about Al?'

Harry does smile this time. 'One of the benefits of being the boss, is I can be as biased as I want, provided no one can prove it.'

'That's very Slytherin of you.'

Harry actually laughs. 'Oh, you have no idea.'

: : :


	7. This is Justice, Christmas Day, 2023

**Part Seven**_  
_This is Justice_  
Christmas Day, 2023_

: : :

It's 3:31am according to the clock on the bedside table. Ginny just finished putting the presents in the appropriate rooms with help from Teddy, who has since gone to sleep. _She_ should be asleep. Knowing James, he'll have the entire house in an uproar in as little as four hours.

But Ginny is lying in bed, waiting for her husband.

3:48am. Ginny sighs, pushes the duvet aside, and locates her dressing gown. Pulling it on, she pads quietly down the stairs. A faint, orange glow crosses the floor in the kitchen, coming from the slightly-ajar the door of the study.

Harry is at the desk, a permanent fixture in the room, head bowed low over some roll of parchment. He's so absorbed in his work, he doesn't realise she's there until she drapes her arms over his hunched shoulders and gives him a squeeze.

'Harry,' she says. 'Come to bed.'

'I will,' he says, leaning into her touch; but his eyes don't leave his work.

'Come to bed,' she says again. 'It's nearly four.'

'Really?'

He actually sounds surprised. She sighs. 'Yes, really. You've been off since midnight.'

He sits back, letting her arms slip around his neck. 'I lost track of time.' He means it, and she believes him; that doesn't mean she's happy about it. 'I'll be up in a minute.'

Ginny knows what that means, too. 'Now,' she insists. 'Harry, please. It's Christmas.'

'I know,' he says, reaching up and touching the back of her neck, pulling her head against his, lips brushing her cheek. 'I'm—sorry, you're right.' He drops the quill his other hand was holding, and extinguishes the candles with a lazy wave of his hand; Ginny has noticed that her husband tends to cast almost entirely non-verbal spells when he's distracted, something he can't do when he's focused because he tries too hard. She steps back as he stands, and he wraps an arm around her waist as she leads him into the kitchen towards the stairs.

'Malfoy's gone and started all this,' he waves a hand haphazardly as they enter the hall upstairs, heading towards the master bedroom, 'I don't even know. I mean, he's gotten a lot of interest, and that's good and all, but how am I supposed to plan a two-month internship training program for two dozen teenagers? On top of everything else?'

Ginny makes a face, the same one she always makes when she hears Malfoy's name. 'Delegate?' she suggests.

'To whom?' Harry's head is lost inside his jumper as he pulls it over his head, knocking his glasses to the floor. Ginny retrieves them and places them on the bedside table. 'I have twelve teams working around the clock as it is. Kingsley won't approve any more overtime.'

Ginny knows this is why Harry is working so late—in management at the Ministry, he is on salary, which means any time off the clock he is basically working for free.

She comes up behind him, the bare contours and the scars on his back more alien to her than they should be, hands sliding up his shoulders—when was the last time they had a night together? 'Worry about it tomorrow,' she tells him.

When he turns to face her, she lets the dressing gown fall down around her shoulders. She is somewhat relieved that she doesn't need to instigate any further—even after twenty years, Harry has never shown any sign of losing interest. Of all the problems they've faced, between the conflicting work schedules, the children, the nightmares that come to him even now on random nights, she's at least grateful for that much. It helps enforce the belief she has to cling to, the idea that she wasn't just the first pretty face he ran to in the midst of the war, a warm comfort when he needed one, a young marriage that wasn't well-thought out. After three children, she's not unhappy with her figure, but she's not as slim as she used to be, and her skin is riddled with motherly imperfections—but Harry's job has kept him in better shape than Quidditch ever did, and she constantly finds herself surprised by how strong he really is.

He breaks the kiss only briefly, and she sees him whisper the Muffliato spell, his hand waving in the vague direction of their bedroom door. Harry traps her between himself and the bed, the mattress bumping the backs of her knees, his hands on her waist. His touch stills leaves her skin tingling, burning under his fingertips like it did when they were teenagers. The soft cushion of the duvet against her back and Harry braced above her, solid and warm and strong, form a cocoon around her that leaves her light-headed.

When Harry finally rolls off her, back and shoulders slick with sweat, the clock on the bedside table reads 4:29. She wriggles up to his side and goes to kiss him goodnight, but Harry is already asleep.

: : :

Albus wakes with a start when Scorpius drops a heavy sack on his head. 'Happy Christmas.'

Albus thinks the presents will still be there if he decides to sleep for another hour. Or four. Despite the sun shining through the window, he feels like it was only five minutes ago he collapsed in a heap and fell straight asleep. The clock on the wall by the door disagrees with him, and says it's almost half-past seven.

Scorpius gives him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his foot. 'You sleep like the dead,' he says.

'You know what I want for Christmas?' Albus says, half-muffled by his pillow. 'Sleep. Is that too much to ask?'

He pushes himself up with his hands, grimacing at the light. He feels like the dead, and imagines he looks like it too. Scorpius is already fully-dressed and smells like soap and toothpaste. Albus scowls at him.

They both jump as someone pounds on the door. 'Al! Get up!'

Albus gives the door a dark look. 'Is sleeping in on a holiday too much to ask?' he demands loudly.

'Up!' James yelps again, giving the door what sounds like a kick before thundering down the hall, shouting, 'They're here!'

Albus blinks, then sits up so quickly that Scorpius is nearly uprooted off the edge of the bed. He pushes the sack of presents aside, spilling brightly-wrapped gifts off the side of his bed and begins looking for his shoes.

'Who's here?'

Albus looks up at Scorpius, and realises very suddenly that he probably should have mentioned this sooner. 'Er. Family friends. Sort of. They come over every Christmas—look, I'll explain later. Just—be nice, okay? They're my friends.'

He leaves Scorpius sitting on the bed, looking perplexed. He's still in his pyjamas and his wand is still on the desk in his room and he nearly collides into Lily at the top of the stairs, who at least has had the sense to put on a jumper; she's also wearing a skirt that he's pretty sure their mum will ban on the fact that it's less of a skirt and more of an over-sized belt, and red-and-white candy-cane stockings with boots that go up to her knees.

She beats him to the door and explodes out of it into the arms of Olivia, who's dressed a bit more conservatively in snow trousers and a thick cloak, because Albus knows her older brother wouldn't have allowed her out of the house in anything less. James is already talking animately to said older brother, a tall figure in a leather jacket with short, dirty-blonde hair reclining against the hood of his car. He looks up at the noise of their sisters, and smiles brilliantly when he sees Albus.

Albus can feel himself grinning in return and has snow in his shoes and is terribly cold in his pyjamas but really does not care at all. Tom gives him a swift, one-armed hug and leaves his arm over Albus' shoulders, breath warm in his hair. James is inside the car, revving the engine unnecessarily, causing the hood to vibrate against their backsides.

'You're shivering,' Tom remarks. Albus leans in closer for the warmth, making a non-committal noise. 'Doesn't your lot have a spell to keep you warm?'

'You're keeping me warm,' Albus points out. He doesn't point out he's left his wand upstairs—and then he remembers he also left Scorpius upstairs, and looks back to the front door, twenty feet away, where Scorpius is standing on the threshold, watching them.

Tom sees him looking, and follows his gaze. 'Oh, hello,' he says quietly, leaning low over Albus' ear, 'where've you been hiding _him_?'

James climbing out of the car and slamming the door saves Albus having to answer. He tosses Tom the keys, shaking his head. 'One day, you need to build _me_ one of these.'

Tom snorts. 'I don't work for free.' He looks over at Scorpius again, who's yet to move. 'Who's your friend?'

'_His_ friend,' James spits, giving Albus a nasty look. 'Don't worry about him, he's just some git.'

'No more than you,' Albus returns.

'Whatever, snake,' James replies shortly. 'Come on, it's bloody freezing out here.'

'In a minute,' Tom says. James shrugs, oblivious, but Albus can still see Scorpius watching them from the doorway. James shoves past him, following Lily and Olivia inside. When James is gone, Tom removes his arm and turns around, resting his hands on the hood of the car. Tom has spent the past three summers rebuilding it. Harry had offered to help, but Tom is a mechanic and said he'd prefer to do it on his own, even though magic could have gotten it finished in as little as three hours. It was more rewarding to do it with your own hands, he'd said. Looking at the finished product, Albus now understands; it is a _beautiful_ machine.

He says so. Tom looks the car over and smiles. 'I know. All she needs now is a paint job.'

Albus hears the snow crunch behind him and turns back around. Scorpius is at his shoulder, looking first at Tom, and then at the car. 'Aston Martin?' he says finally, and Tom looks surprised.

'Vantage, 1980,' Tom says, impressed, and holds out a hand. 'Tom.'

'Malfoy,' says Scorpius, taking it. 'You're a Muggle.'

'Such an unflattering term,' Tom says, smiling crookedly. 'You like cars?'

'I like that car,' Scorpius admits, smirking. 'Ugly colour, though.'

'That's just the primer,' Tom says. 'Paint's expensive, it'll do for now.'

Albus suddenly gets an idea. He turns around and looks at the car, and places both hands on the hood. The cement-grey primer is rough under his palms. He closes his eyes, and concentrates; he knows Tom's favourite colour.

The rough texture of the primer under his hands turns smooth and glossy. Albus hears a sharp intake of breath to his right, and opens his eyes. The car is now a beautiful, deep evergreen, the leather seats inside a blinding white. Tom stares at the car in awe for a moment before staring at Albus.

'Happy Christmas,' Albus says, grinning.

Tom gives him another quick, one-armed hug, squeezing his shoulders together painfully tight. He hisses very quietly in Albus' ear, 'You'll get yours later.'

Albus is too busy flushing to realise that Scorpius is staring at the car in just as much, if not more, shock than Tom. This is perhaps because he's the only one who's noticed that Albus had left his wand upstairs.

: : :

There's a familiar rumble of an engine outside his window, and the thunder of footsteps across the hall and down the stairs. Harry winces at the blurry light when he opens his eyes, and reaches over Ginny to locate his glasses, crams them on, and looks for his clothes. He's halfway down the stairs when he hears the crackle of fire in the living room hearth, and the orange glow cast on the rug quickly turns green to signal the incoming Floo. This early on Christmas morning, it can only be one thing, and already he knows there'll be a row about it.

'Happy Christmas,' says the face in the fireplace. 'Sorry to bother you so early, Harry.'

'Good morning, Perc,' Harry says, rubbing his eyes under his glasses and taking a seat on the couch. As Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, it's compulsory that Percy works holidays, a constant annoyance to Molly. 'It's fine. What is it?'

'Bit of a problem at the office,' Percy says. Harry thinks that if this is the case, one of his employees would have been in touch, and Percy seems to sense this and continues, 'It's about the Mueller case.'

Harry pauses. 'We closed the Mueller case,' he says.

'Well, perhaps it's time to re-open it,' Percy says, being typically vague. 'Also, there's a Muggle in your office causing a right fuss.'

'How did a Muggle get into my office?' Harry says, slightly alarmed.

'Buggered if I know. Says he's your cousin, or something—'

'My—_what?_' Harry interrupts. Then, 'No, nevermind. Just—I'll be right in. I need to say bye to the kids, and talk to Gin—give me half an hour,' he finishes, standing. 'Thank you, Perc.'

'Sorry again,' Percy says, looking sincerely apologetic. Harry watches the flames revert back to their normal colour, and curses.

: : :

When they come back inside, Albus can hear his parents shouting from the kitchen.

This doesn't happen often, mostly due to the fact that his mother and father are so rarely home at the same time. When it does happen, it's rather terrifying. It's worse than the times he's seen Scorpius having a go at his father, the usual welcome-home fight he's witnessed when visiting the Manor over the summer; nobody can row like his parents.

'We've been over this,' Harry says, no longer shouting, but the severity of his voice makes Albus wince. 'I have to go.'

'What is the _point_,' Ginny snaps, voice rising dangerously with every word, 'of being head of an entire _bloody_ department if it's always _you_ that has to—'

Scorpius raises his eyebrows at the noise and looks at Albus, who sighs. James is sitting on the couch with Olivia and Lily, and he whispers something to Lily—she nods, takes Olivia's hand, and leads her upstairs, presumably to her room. Tom comes in behind them, pausing with the door half-closed as Ginny starts shouting again, and looks at James.

'Sorry,' James says, shrugging.

'We could go back outside,' Tom suggests.

'It's bloody freezing outside,' James says reasonably. Albus silently agrees. 'Anyway, it won't be—'

Teddy comes trotting down the stairs, already pulling on his cloak. Apparently, he was called back in as well. He pauses to listen to the noise from the kitchen, then at the group of them in the living room. 'Er,' he says, 'oh, hi, Tommy,' he smiles briefly, and Tom nods in return. 'Listen, sorry to run, but there's a problem at work—' they all wince when Ginny shrieks, '—maybe you lot should hang out upstairs?' he suggests.

'Harry, don't you dare, or I swear I'll—'

'You'll _what?_' Harry snarls, halfway into the living room, rounding on her, his voice slick with hissing. Albus has only heard his father speak Parseltongue, once, and it scared the hell out of him. Ginny, coming in behind him, visibly pales. Harry turns around, sees the cluster of boys in the living room and deflates almost instantly. 'Hey, Tommy. Ted, you ready?'

Teddy nods shortly.

'All right,' he says, glancing back at Ginny, who is watching him with red eyes and folded arms. He turns back to the group. 'There's a bit of an emergency at work. I'll try to be home for tea. Tell your sisters I said Happy Christmas, will you?'

He throws a handful of Floo powder into the fire and disappears, Teddy trailing timidly after him. Ginny takes a deep breath and storms back into the kitchen, and Albus is pretty sure he can hear glass breaking.

'Well, that was awkward,' Scorpius says suddenly.

Albus laughs a bit nervously, relieved. But James stands up, glaring. 'At least our mum isn't so ashamed of her family she picked up and left,' he sneers.

Albus barely catches Scorpius in time. Tom has the foresight to likewise restrain James, smirking triumphantly as Scorpius struggles in Albus' grip. For a moment, Albus is actually worried Scorpius will hit him instead.

'Hey, look,' Tom says, readjusting his grip on James' elbow, 'why don't we take the Vantage out for a spin?' James looks as if the only thing he wants to take for a spin is Scorpius' neck. 'I'll teach you how to drive?' Tom offers, and Albus knows this will do it, because James has been bugging him about it for two summers.

James relaxes in his grip, still staring hard at Scorpius. 'Yeah, all right.'

Tom hands him the keys, and makes sure to keep himself between James and Scorpius all the way to the door. He pauses on the threshold and looks at Albus. 'We'll be back in an hour,' he says.

'Okay.' Albus watches him go, his chest heavy, but does not let go of Scorpius until he can hear the engine start up again. Scorpius is still breathing hard, but slowly begins to relax in his grip. Albus puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards the stairs. 'So,' he says, 'presents?'

: : :

When Harry opens the door to his office, what he sees nearly gives him a stroke.

Draco is sitting at his desk, methodically stirring a cup of coffee with the idle twist of his index finger. Across from him, hands fisted in his lap around another steaming, untouched cup and looking entirely out of place, is Dudley. He stands up quickly when he sees Harry, knocking the cup to the floor and spilling coffee everywhere.

'Harry,' he says, and Harry just stares. Draco is watching the exchange with interest. Dudley is dressed in a dark grey suit, and a lot thinner than Harry remembers him at seventeen. His blonde hair is almost as pale as Draco's, and beginning to grey. 'Um. Happy Christmas.'

Harry looks at Draco, who shrugs and reclines in his chair to watch the show. Harry closes the door to his office behind him, very slowly. 'Dudley. What on—how did you even get in here?'

'Mrs Figg,' Dudley says by way of explanation. 'Not—she's dead, you know, but her daughter-in-law—she's one of your lot, and I told her I needed to find you, so she—look, can we talk?'

'Now?' Harry says, still perplexed.

Dudley looks nervously at Draco, who gives him a feral grin; he pulls a fag out of his pocket, pulls out his wand and lights it with a conjured flame. Dudley swallows and looks back at Harry. 'Please?'

Harry shuts his eyes and rubs his temples with his fingertips. 'Um. Sure. Look, there's something I need to—can you wait?' he says, opening his eyes. 'Outside, I mean. In the lobby. I'll be with you in a minute.'

'All right,' Dudley says, moving to the door, 'okay. Thank you.'

Harry waits until he's gone to glare at Draco, who's smirking at him through a haze of smoke. 'Put that out,' he orders. 'What the hell is the big emergency?'

Draco ignores him and takes another drag. 'Buggered if I know. Here I am, shuffling through your old budget reports, when some half-crazed Muggle starts banging down the door.'

Harry sits at his desk, and it takes him a moment to realise what Draco's just said. He looks at Draco, and notices the signs; the baggy eyes, hollow cheeks and ashen complexion. 'Have you been here all night?'

'What do you care?' He exhales sharply, throwing more smoke across the room. 'Is that really your cousin?'

'Yes. And I care because it's Christmas,' he adds.

'Just another day of the year,' Draco counters, and levitates a thick file over to him. 'It's happened again.'

Harry takes the file and opens it. The first page is a fresh report by Thomas and Entwhistle; Dean's reports are usually adorned by various doodles along the border, but this one is blank and serious. Harry glances at the case details and sighs heavily, the knot in his stomach hardening. 'Jesus,' he says, and stands. 'I need to—' he remembers Dudley outside his office, waiting, and curses, 'Malfoy, could you—'

'Sure,' Draco says.

Harry stops with his hand on the door. 'Without terrifying him, if you please.'

'I make no promises.' Harry looks back at him and Draco, rolling his eyes, makes shooing motions with his hands. 'I won't. Go.'

Harry finds Kevin and Dean in the room adjoining the interrogation room, looking through the one-way glass at a young teenage boy, looking lost. Dean sees Harry and looks instantly relieved. 'Hey, Harry. Sorry, I know it's Christmas, but—'

'It's fine,' Harry says, nodding a greeting at Kevin. 'Has he said anything yet?'

'No,' Dean admits. He summons a box forward off the table in the corner and hands it to Harry. 'Same MO as the Mueller case. You don't think it's the same guy, do you?'

Harry looks at the contents of the box; it's a revolver this time, small and silver. 'Certainly looks that way, doesn't it?' He tosses the box back, and looks at the figure. 'Who is he?'

'Jonathan Ackerly,' Kevin says, looking at the file in his hands. 'Thirteen, Ravenclaw. Two sisters, seven and nine, mother died in childbirth. They got the father first, then the girls—it was the middle of the night, they were asleep, didn't stand a chance... His father worked at St Mungo's,' he continues. 'This kid was staying at Hogwarts for the break, thank Merlin.'

So, it had happened again. The first time, almost a year ago, it had been the Mueller family; twin boys, too young to be at Hogwarts, and both parents. The guy had used a gun on them, too. Trying to make it look like a Muggle hate-crime, but it didn't make any sense—the wards on the house had been disabled, and only a wizard could do that. So either it was a Muggleborn, or a Muggle who'd had help. All traces of the perp had been removed, too—Harry had closed the case because, well, what else could they do? They had nothing to go on.

'Please tell me you found something,' Harry says, watching the boy staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before. 'Anything.'

Kevin looks at Dean, who hesitates, then nods. Kevin pulls out a photograph of the crime scene; there are two twin beds along a lavender wall, both dark by the head, blood-spatter dashed across the pillows and the wall.

Above the beds, engraved into the wall, are the words: _This is Justice_.

: : :

'So, Dudley—can I call you Dudley? Excellent. Would you like some more coffee? Or maybe something stronger?'

Dudley blinks at him and then nods hurriedly, so Draco summons a bottle of Firewhiskey from a high shelf with a flick of his wand. Dudley watches the bottle unscrew it's own cap and pour itself into the mug, before the mug floats to him and waits patiently over his lap.

Dudley takes the cup timidly, as if might bite him. He sniffs it. 'Thank you?' he says, taking a careful sip. Draco grins brilliantly as his eyes bulge, and coughs. 'Erm. So. Where is Harry? My wife—she thinks I'm picking up a gift I'd forgotten, but if I'm not back soon—'

'Harry,' Draco says, testing the word on his tongue. It feels weird. 'Harry will be along,' he says. 'Important case, you know how it is.'

'Erm,' Dudley says. 'No, I really don't. What does he do?'

Draco blinks at him. 'You don't know what he does for a living?'

Dudley shifts, looking uncomfortable. He takes another sip of the Firewhisky. 'Um. Not exactly, no. I haven't spoken to him since... well, since he left.'

'Left as in, when he was seventeen?'

'Well, yeah.' Dudley takes a larger sip. 'Look, I can leave my telephone number, and he can call me when he's—'

'Your what?' Draco interrupts.

'Um. Number, for the telephone?' Dudley says hopefully. Draco just stares at him. 'Right, you lot don't use them, I forgot. I just, it won't take long, but I really need—what is it, that he does?'

'He's an Auror,' Draco explains. At the blank look on Dudley's face, he tries to remember the Muggle term. 'Sort of like—a Muggle please-man, or whatever it is you call them.'

'He's a cop?' Dudley says. 'Harry's a _cop?_'

'Auror,' Draco corrects. 'Head of the department, actually. And a bit more specialised than your typical law enforcement.'

'Like—a detective?'

'Well, part of the job is detecting things,' Draco admits. 'That sounds about right.'

'Wow,' says Dudley, looking surprised. 'Harry's a—that's just so weird.'

'Why is it weird?'

'Well, he was breaking your lot's laws left and right when he was a kid, wasn't he? Blew up my Aunt Marge once. And with all the—owls and things that kept showing up. Had to go to a hearing and everything.' He took another sip of his whiskey, leaned forward and added, 'He sicked a python on me, too, when we were kids, you know.'

Draco raises an eyebrow. 'He would, wouldn't he, being a bloody Parselmouth.'

'A what-mouth?'

'He can talk to snakes.'

'Can't you?'

Draco bites back a retort, remembering that this is, after all, a lowly Muggle and has no idea that accusing strange wizards of being Parselmouths for no good reason is asking to get jinxed. 'No,' he tells him. 'It's not something many wizards can do.'

'Oh,' says Dudley, sitting back. 'Well. I didn't—mum didn't tell me about... _it_, the magic and stuff, until after that. I always just thought he was just a bit weird, you know?'

'No,' Draco says coldly. 'I don't.'

Harry walks back into the office, slamming the door behind him. Dudley jumps; Draco is relieved, because he will not have to explain to the Office of Mis-Information why he suddenly hexed a Muggle on Ministry grounds. When Harry sits down at his desk, he stares at it for a moment, and the bottle of Firewhisky on Draco's desk shatters without warning, making Dudley jump again and Draco curse.

Harry looks up, looking surprised to find them in the room. 'Sorry,' he says, as Draco repairs the bottle with a flick of his wand—the whiskey, unfortunately, is gone forever. 'I forgot—Dudley, you wanted to talk?'

Dudley looks nervously at Draco and back to Harry, who continues, 'He's got Eavesdropping charms all over this office, so he's going to listen in either way.'

Draco gives Harry an appraising look. 'I didn't know you'd noticed.'

'All right, well, it's—my daughter's birthday,' Dudley begins.

Harry blinks at him. 'I didn't know you had a daughter.'

'And a son. Richie. He's just eight, last October.' Dudley is rambling and Harry looks too perplexed to stop him. 'But my little girl—Veronica, it's her birthday today.'

Harry just looks at him. 'All right?'

'She's just turned eleven,' Dudley adds.

Harry continues to look at him, and Draco watches his face go from blank to shock in record time. 'You mean—are you saying that she's—'

Dudley stands up and pulls something out of his jacket pocket, and shows it to Harry. Even across the room, Draco can see the wax seal on the backside.

'Holy shit,' says Harry, looking up from the letter to Dudley.

'Congratulations,' Draco says, smirking.

Dudley wheels on him. 'Congratulations? Are you mental? This—' he flings the letter away from him, as if it's trash, '—this has to be a mistake!'

'A mistake,' Draco says, his voice like ice.

'Yes!' Dudley turns back to Harry, who's no longer looking shocked but not looking angry, either. If anything, he looks... sad. 'This must be a mistake! I never—that is to say, my wife and I, we're not—'

'A bit weird?' Draco supplies.

Harry finally stands up, retrieving the letter and handing it back to his cousin. 'Dudley, look. Hogwarts doesn't make mistakes. It doesn't work like that. And even if—your wife, I mean, even _if _she's only a Muggle, you're not.'

'What?' Dudley yelps, backing up. 'What d'you mean, I'm not—'

'Your mother's sister was a witch,' Harry reminds him. 'Even if you're not, you've still got her blood. Anyway, even pure Muggles occasionally have magical children. It's not common, but it happens.'

'But we don't want—'

'It's not really up to you,' Harry says. His face is still blank, but Draco hears the difference in his voice; there's a slight hiss to the words. 'Have you told her?'

'Are you mad? My wife doesn't know anything about—'

'I meant your daughter,' Harry interrupts. 'Have you told her?'

'Of course not!'

Harry steps forward, closing the gap Dudley has put between them. 'Why did you come here, then? Did you think, for a moment, that even if I could—how did your dad put it, _stamp it out of her_—that if I could magic it away, that I would?' Dudley looks very much like he regrets coming here at all—Harry is so close to him now, he's actually leaning backward. 'How _dare_ you.'

'I didn't—I just—I don't know what to do!' Dudley backs away, and sees that his only escape is by Draco, who is twirling the ends of his wand between his index fingers and smirking dangerously at him. 'I just thought you could—I don't know, I just—how do I tell her? How do I tell my _wife?_ And mum,' Dudley pales at the thought, looking sick. 'Oh, God, it'll kill her.'

Harry doesn't move after him, but is following his cousin with his eyes as he wedges himself between Draco's desk and the wall. 'You can't just ignore this. You _know_ that. It won't just go away. Even if you refused to let her go—untrained witches and wizards are dangerous,' he says. 'They can't control the magic—without a wand, without schooling, they don't know how. And even if you don't tell her, sooner or later, she'll figure it out.'

Dudley is looking at the floor, crestfallen. He'd obviously come here looking for some sort of desperate, impossible solution. Draco might have felt sorry for him, if he wasn't such an idiot.

'Dudley.' Dudley looks up at Harry, who is staring at him with a rare intensity—Draco hasn't seen Harry this angry in a long, long time. 'I swear, if you put her through the hell you and your parents did me,' he says, every syllable sibilant, slithering out of his mouth like a snake, 'I will make you regret it.'

: : :

The first thing Scorpius says when they reach Albus' room is, 'You never told me you were friends with a Muggle.'

'It never came up,' Albus says truthfully. 'I mean, Olivia's a witch, you know that, she's in Lily's year. Muggleborn, obviously. Only one in the family, that they know of.'

'And they always come over for the holidays?' Scorpius asks. 'Don't they have their own parents?'

'Well, no,' Albus admits. 'It's a long story, actually...'

It's a terrible story, actually. Hate-crimes sky-rocketed after the War. You'd think that, with Voldemort gone, people would've been able to feel safe again, Harry had said. But there were so many of his supporters still out there, _are_ so many still out there, that the crimes only got worse. Tom and Olivia were no exception—both of their parents were murdered by wizards. Olivia had been attending her first year at Hogwarts, and Tom had been away at a Muggle boarding school. It had been Harry's case; Ginny said it was because he felt sorry for them that he tried so hard to include them, inviting them over, and she didn't mind, really—they were nice kids. Tom had quit school and started working full time at his friend's garage, and took care of his sister over the summer. It was the least they could do, his parents said, to give them some semblance of having a family again.

Tom was almost twenty now, and had a small flat about an hour south of Godric's Hollow. Nothing glamorous, but they were doing all right. James and him got along well, and Olivia was Lily's best mate. They were practically family, now.

'Anyway, they mostly come 'round during the summer. I hardly get to see them any more, since I'm usually with you. It doesn't bother you, does it?'

'That he's a Muggle?' Albus nods, and Scorpius shrugs. 'I guess not. Just a bit weird. Probably weirder for him, being the only non-magic person around.'

'He's getting used to it, I think,' Albus admits. 'Him and James trade music, Lily too, and he gets me books,' Albus nods at the shelves that house the Muggle classics he owns. 'Movies, too. You know, those Muggle films. It's not like it doesn't have benefits. He played Quidditch with us last summer and broke an arm, and was really happy when Dad fixed it instantly. Said he was worried he wouldn't be able to work for months.'

'Weird,' Scorpius says again. 'I don't know how they get on, without magic.'

'They manage.' He looks pleased that Scorpius isn't too bothered by his having a Muggle buddy. 'You know, if you want, he could probably get you stuff too. Especially cars, they've got all sorts of old classics just rusting away at his shop that you could fix up with a wand real easy.'

'Speaking of which.' Scorpius picks Albus' wand off the desk and hands it to him. Albus blinks at him. 'You forgot that.'

'Okay?' Albus says, mystified. Scorpius just continues to look at him, and it takes a moment before Albus realises. 'Oh,' he says, frowning. 'Shit.'

: : :


	8. Secrets, End of Winter Holidays, 2023

**Part Eight**  
Secrets  
_End of the Winter Holidays, 2023_

* * *

'Look,' Albus says, fidgeting. 'It's not that big a deal, okay?'

'Not that – are you mental?' Scorpius exclaims, eyes bugging unattractively. 'That kind of spellwork is complicated enough _with_ a wand!'

'Will you _stop_ _shouting_?' Albus snaps. The bedroom door, seemingly of its own accord, slams closed, making Scorpius jump. Good, Albus thinks. His friend is practically hysterical. 'That's all I need, is Dad or Jamie – '

'They don't _know?_' Scorpius is looking at Albus like he's never seen him before. He's also still shouting. 'Merlin's _pants_, Potter, what the hell is wrong with you? Your father – '

'Dad has enough to worry about without adding me in,' Albus says. It's true, and honestly, he doesn't see what the big _deal_ is. 'I cast one tiny spell without my wand, so what?'

'You cast a _metamorphic_ _charm_ without a _wand_,' Scorpius feels inclined to point out, throwing up his hands in his way of indicating that Albus is a hopeless case. '_Non-verbally_. And all you have to say is _so what_!' Scorpius flops back onto the bed, hand over his eyes. 'How long have you been – ' he waves his other hand in a swish-and-flick movement, 'doing that?'

'Um,' Albus says. 'I don't – always?'

Scorpius is rubbing at his face with the palms of his hands; that, or trying to claw his eyes out

'Always,' he says finally, sitting up to look at Albus. Scorpius' hair, Albus is pleased to note, is actually messier than his own. 'Do you pay _any_ attention in History of Magic? Do you have any idea what this means?'

Albus doesn't think he's ever made it through a History lesson awake. It was always like having a free nap period in the middle of his schedule. 'That you're never going to shut up about it?' he offers.

Scorpius makes a tiny noise of pain deep in his throat. 'You really have no idea, do you?' he says, and Albus doesn't, but Scorpius doesn't explain. Instead, he fixes Albus with a _look_ and says, 'Any _other_ crazy secrets I should know about?'

Albus thinks that there are several, one in particular, but his father _did_ know about that one and warned him long ago that it wasn't something he should go bragging about. He can feel Scorpius probing at his mind, his adolescent talent at Legilimency more annoying than ever. Albus blinks, and that's all it takes; barriers in place, Scorpius lets out a breath and glares at him.

'So, it's like that, then,' Scorpius says, voice like ice.

'Because I don't want you snooping around in my head?' Albus snaps back, a sudden burst of anger roaring in his ears. 'Yeah, _Malfoy_. It's like that. I only tell secrets to people I _trust_.'

Albus storms out of his bedroom and re-slams the door behind him. He sags backward, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to knock his head against the door in frustration. He _hates_ fighting with Scorpius. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it makes him feel all twisted inside, even if he's got every reason to be angry because Scorpius is being a spoilt, insouciant _prick_.

It's not that Albus doesn't want to tell him. He does. He's almost told him about a dozen times over the years, but always held back by the uncertainty of what Scorpius would do if he did. It might ruin _everything_.

There is also the other thing, the one that has Albus blushing like a schoolgirl every time Tom smiles at him or averting his eyes every time Scorpius changes out of his robes, but honestly, that was the least of his worries.

The doorknob of his room jiggles; Albus dashes next door and locks himself in James' room, holding his breath as he hears footsteps pass the room and head towards the bath. A few minutes later, he hears the familiar, muffled roar of the shower through the wall and sighs in relief.

Scorpius will get over the fight quick enough, he knows. Probably sooner than later, what with being locked in the same house with Albus' older brother. But Albus doesn't want to talk to him right now, or any time soon, because he knows Scorpius won't let this go, will just dig in his teeth and hang on like a terrier until Albus gives in or hexes him into oblivion.

The shower gives Albus some time; he wonders just how long he can avoid Scorpius in his own house. Just then, like fate answering his prayers, Albus hears through the window the familiar rumble of an engine pull up out front.

On that note, Albus decides to indulge.

* * *

'So,' Draco says at length, 'your... cousin. He's really – '

'Don't even start.'

' – Muggle-ish,' Draco finishes lamely, humming. 'Did you really sic a python on him?'

'Not on _purpose_.'

'Was Finch-Fletchly an accident, too?'

'If you don't shut your face, I'm going to accidentally sic one on _you_.'

Draco's smile is wicked; Harry feels like he's somehow walked into a trap. 'Well, might be you should. Can't have people thinking we're getting along. It'd cause a scandal.'

'I think your son and James keep enough of the scandal going as it is,' Harry remarks.

Something shutters over Draco's expression. It isn't lost on Harry that Draco has, not once, enquired to his son's well-being during his stay over the holidays. 'They haven't burnt the house down yet,' Harry offers.

'Good, because I've not sunk so low as to buy you a new house,' Draco replies without missing a beat. 'Are you going back home, or did you want to get tea?'

Harry should go home. Teddy's already left, after having spoken with the Ravenclaw kid and escorting him back to Hogwarts. Teddy is always the best when it comes to talking to kids; Harry never knows what to say. He imagines going home; Ginny giving him that look that promises trouble later, James and Scorpius glaring daggers at one another over the dinner table, Lily and Olivia constantly asking to be excused to go do whatever it is that teenage girls do, and Tom and Albus making eyes at each other and hoping no one will notice.

'Yeah,' Harry says, abandoning the file on his desk. 'Food sounds good.'

* * *

'How long d'you think it'll take them to find us?'

Albus should be cold, but isn't; Tom does an exceptional job at keeping him warm, even though the snow comes up almost to their knees. The back wall of the broom shed is brittle, but sturdy. Albus leans his head back against it, grinning. 'Dunno. Hopefully never?'

Tom grins back at him. The stubble on his cheek bites sharply against Albus'. He smells like petrol; he _always_ smells like petrol. Albus has come to associate the smell with the vertigo-like feeling his head and stomach experience now, as Tom's fingers curl around his waist, pulling him in. Albus knows that their absence will not go unnoticed for long, if it has at all—James is easy enough to lose, but he left Scorpius while he was in the shower and knows that he will come looking sooner rather than later. He feels a little guilty for leaving his best mate alone in the house with his older brother, but he hasn't seen Tom since those few days early last summer. Albus has spent the majority of his vacations at Malfoy Manor and, while he doesn't regret this, he gets to see Scorpius all year long and only gets to see Tom a few days out of every holiday.

'We could go for a drive,' Tom says. The Vantage is parked out front, and James is likely to hear the engine start and demand to come along. When Albus points this out, Tom shrugs. 'We could go very _quickly_,' he suggests.

Albus hesitates. Scorpius will be out of his shower soon, if he isn't already. 'We could,' he decides. 'But I can't—we can't take long,' he says, sighing. 'Or Jamie and Score burn down the house and mum'll have a fit.'

'They don't seem to get on well,' Tom agrees as they hurry quickly towards his car. Albus slides into the passenger seat as Tom starts the engine. 'Though, won't he be more buggered to learn you've run off with me?'

'It's not like that,' Albus says quickly, flushing. 'He's just a friend.'

'Yeah, all right,' Tom says, smirking as they pull out onto the street. 'You're a good liar, but not that good.'

'I'm not lying,' Albus says, truthfully.

'All right,' Tom says again, shrugging as he turns down another street, heading for the park on the edge of the Hollow. 'It's just,' he says, pausing, his mouth forming a funny angle. He looks sideways at Albus, 'You should see the way you look at him.'

'I don't—'

'You do,' Tom says, pulling up in the deserted parking lot adjacent to the park. The sun is setting already, and the snow-laden trees casting them in deep shadow. This late, the park is empty; everyone's gone home already for Christmas dinner. He puts the car into park and sits back in his seat, leaning against the door. 'I'm not angry,' he adds, at the look Albus is giving him. 'Just curious.'

'But I'm not—oh, Merlin and Morgana _both_,' Albus says, rolling his eyes. 'You too?'

'Me too, what?'

'You're jealous!'

Tom raises an eyebrow. 'Should I be?'

'No,' Albus says, firmly.

'Well, I am,' Tom admits sheepishly, smirking. 'A bit. Oh, come on, you get to spend all year with—well, _that_,' he explains. Albus feels his neck grow hot. 'I'm not angry,' he says again. 'But I can be a little jealous, if I want.'

'You don't need to be,' Albus points out, sidling over towards Tom's seat. It's a little awkward, but he's skinny, and Tom reclines the chair to make more room. 'He's straighter than a broom handle, honestly.'

'Well, to be fair,' Tom says, fingers tousling his hair, 'I thought I was, too.'

Albus is glad that Tom kisses him then, so he doesn't see him blush.

* * *

Scorpius can't find Albus.

This happens a lot, especially at school. He always seems to be misplacing the little bastard, and it certainly doesn't help that he has that cloak—though, Scorpius admits, he gets good use out of the cloak himself, so he supposes fair's fair. He can't understand how he can lose Albus in this house, however, when there are only so many places for Albus to hide. Even when Albus visits the Manor, he can always send their house-elf to find him.

It doesn't help that James Potter is here, though at the moment he seems confined to his room. Loud music that sounds vaguely familiar trails out the half-open door into the upstairs hall; Scorpius passes it quickly, hoping he will go unnoticed. Albus isn't in his room or the loo, so maybe he's downstairs? He could be in James' room again, but if that is the case, then there isn't much Scorpius can do about it for now.

The Muggle is also missing. Olivia is downstairs with Lily; they are charming each other's hair different colours, with increasingly disastrous results. Scorpius pokes his head into the kitchen, and spies Albus' mother shifting through something in the adjoining study, but Albus is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is the Muggle. Odd.

From what he can see out the windows, the backyard is also empty. As he investigates the front, he passes Lily, who currently has sleek blonde hair, not unlike his own natural colour. He pulls the curtain aside, and sees that the front yard is also deserted. The newly-painted evergreen Aston Martin is also missing.

'If you're looking for Al, Tommy and him took off, like, ten minutes ago.'

Lily is at his shoulder, looking at him looking. He scowls at her. 'Where'd they go?'

Lily shrugs and returns to the sofa with Olivia, whose own dusty blonde hair is now a dark red. It suits her. 'Buggered if I know where they're always getting off to.'

Scorpius, desperate for an ally should James venture downstairs, joins them. 'Always?'

'Tom and Al are always disappearing,' Olivia piques in. She's looking at herself in a hand-held mirror, wrinkling her nose. 'I dunno, Lil, you really think it's better this dark?'

'With your skin, yeah,' Lily says confidently, scrutinizing herself in the same mirror over Olivia's shoulder. She gives her wand a lazy wave, and the colour of her hair turns more of a strawberry blonde. She tilts her head in the mirror once more, running her fingers through her hair. She does an abrupt about-face and demands, 'What d'you think, Malfoy?'

'Um,' Scorpius says; too busy thinking about why Albus and his Muggle would scamper off without him, he's caught off guard. 'Sure?'

'I dunno,' Lily says, dismissing him and snatching the mirror from Olivia to scrutinize her reflection. 'It makes my freckles stand out.'

'Most blokes like freckles,' Olivia says. 'I wish I had them.'

'Do they?' Lily looks at Scorpius for confirmation.

'Er, I guess?' Scorpius says, thinking that honestly a bloke couldn't care less, so long as a girl is willing to let said bloke's hands wander. 'How long are they usually gone?'

'Don't worry, mum won't let James kill you while you're in the house,' Lily says, clearly picking up on his train of thought. 'You might not want to wander outside, though. Here, hold this.'

Lily shoves the looking glass into his hand and adjusts it just so, muttering 'There, don't move,' before taking her wand to her hair to give herself highlights. Scorpius resigns himself to being a vanity cabinet for the time being, if only it'll prevent giving James an easy target. Lily hums, making a face, before magicking the highlights away. 'Bugger all, my hair is hopeless.'

Scorpius thinks her hair is fine; if anyone's hair is hopeless, it's Albus', something she and her eldest brother were lucky enough not to inherit.

'Yeah,' Olivia agrees. 'We have very stubborn hair.' She looks passingly at Scorpius, then pauses. Scorpius suddenly feels alarmed. 'We could play with _his_ hair.'

* * *

James is hungry. This is generally a bad omen for house-elves and relatives everywhere, because when James Potter is hungry he can eat about three times his own weight without pause. His mother is the only one who doesn't seem particular surprised by this fact; apparently, he inherited the talent from every single one of his uncles.

It's why he's left the confines of his room, humming the guitar riff to _Smoke on the Water_ under his breath. It is really unfair, James thinks, that Muggles seem to get all the amazing guitarists.

The rock 'n roll under his breath is interrupted by the obnoxious sounds of pop coming from the half-open door to his left. Ever since Tom introduced Lily to Madonna, she's played The Immaculate Collection enough times that James sometimes finds himself singing _Material Girl_ in the shower before he realises what's happening. It's like a disease.

He shudders and shoulders the door open. 'Lil, will you give it a rest – '

James stops himself, momentarily stunned by the image presented inside. Olivia is on the bed flipping through some Muggle magazine, reading out choice quotes and cackling. Lily is perched half-on her vanity desk, wand in one hand and look of intense concentration on her face. The other hand she has tangled in short black hair, now sporting the occasional burst of candied-apple red.

Malfoy's sitting cross-legged on the chair in front of the mirror, head tilted down, looking up at Lily through his multi-coloured bangs. He mutters something James can't hear over the music, and Lily giggles. James has his wand in his hand before he finishes opening the door.

'What the _hell?_'

'Oh, bugger,' says Lily.

Malfoy ducks just in time to avoid the hex; the mirror behind Lily shatters.

'Are you _twelve?_' Lily snaps at him, grabbing Malfoy by the arm as he goes to raise his own wand. 'Get out of my room!'

Malfoy twists out of her grip and then shoves them both aside to avoid James' next spell, just as someone behind him goes, 'Hey, what're you lot – _Expelliarmus_!'

James' wand goes flying from his hand; Teddy, standing behind James in the hallway, catches it swiftly. 'Piss off!' James snaps, attempted to snatch his wand back.

Teddy raises his wand out of his reach, backing up as he does because over the past year, James has nearly caught up to him in height. This unfortunately brings James back into the hallway, which allows Lily to slam the door behind him; there's a faint _click_ as the lock slides into place.

'Dammit, Teddy, what the hell!'

'I could ask you the same,' Teddy says, still holding James' wand out of reach. 'Are you done being an idiot?'

'_Malfoy_ is in there!'

'Yes, I can see that, but unless he was snogging your sister, you really need to calm down.'

James crosses his arms over his chest and glares. 'They were _playing_ with his _hair_.'

'Then I think him snogging your sister is the last thing you need to worry about,' Teddy says knowledgeably. He offers James his wand, but pulls back as James immediately reaches for it. 'Don't think I won't arrest you.'

James rolls his eyes and snatches his wand back. 'You wouldn't.'

'Well, maybe not,' Teddy admits, smirking, 'but I'm pretty sure Harry would. Come on, let's go see what's for dinner, eh?'

* * *

'How many do we have?'

'About twenty.'

'And how many can we afford?'

'Six. Eight would be pushing it.'

'And you're sure you don't mind?'

Draco looks up from the proposal laid out between them, scattered amongst various Chinese take-away boxes. 'Are you sure _you_ don't?'

Harry has to admit, he's a little uncomfortable with the idea, but it's not as if they have any decent alternatives. 'Is there really enough room for twenty? Teenagers?' he adds, because this is kind of an important point.

Draco shrugs. 'Sure, if they double-up. It'll still be more room than they get at Hogwarts.'

'And how do we plan to feed them?'

'They're teenagers,' Draco says, shrugging again. 'They'll eat anything.'

'They'll eat a _lot_ of anything.'

'I'll figure something out.'

Harry gives him a look; over the years crossing paths at the Ministry, he's learned enough about Malfoy to know whenever he decides to figure something out, it's usually by throwing Galleons at it.

'Still,' Draco continues, 'someone's going to have to cook the food. And clean up after them. I only have one house-elf.'

'I'll talk to McGonagall, I'm sure she wouldn't mind lending us a few over the summer.'

Draco grimaces. 'Oh, great, Granger'll _love_ that.'

'Just tell her we're compensating them.'

'With what? Wool hats?'

'Sure, why not?'

Draco rolls his eyes and goes back to the parchment.

Harry digs around in the fried rice while Draco scribbles some more notes before going down the list. 'Oh, and we'll need some sort of supervision. Even if I don't come into the office there is no way in hell I am going to be able to babysit twenty demon children by myself.'

'Teddy'll help out.'

'He'll cause more trouble than he prevents.'

'Maybe, but _him_ I can reprimand.' Draco glares at him and Harry subsides. 'I'll ask around, we'll figure something out.'

'All right,' Draco says, gathering the parchment together. 'I'll take care of this. You need to get the draft for the training program back to me by, oh, I dunno, let's go with March to be safe. Merlin help us if Kingsley doesn't approve it.'

'Most of the parents have already signed the waivers,' Harry points out. Actually, on that note... Harry rustles around in his own stack of parchment before finding the one he needs, and dangles it in front of Draco. 'Except you.'

Draco snatches the form out of his hand and hastily scrawls a signature across the bottom before tossing it back.

'Not even going to read it?' Harry asks.

'Why bother?' Draco says, and when Harry tilts his head in question, rolls his eyes. 'I wrote the damn thing.'

'If you don't want him to go,' Harry says, choosing his words carefully, 'I can make up about a dozen reasons to deny his application.'

Draco sighs before gathering his things and standing. 'I don't _care_, Potter.'

Yeah, Harry thinks. I can see that.


End file.
